


A Light in the Dark

by dracomalfyaoi



Category: Captain America (Movies), MCU, Marvel Cinematic Universe, The Avengers (Marvel Movies)
Genre: AU, Amnesia, Angst, Artist Steve Rogers, Homeless Bucky, Hurt/Comfort, M/M, PTSD, Pre-Serum Steve Rogers, Skinny! Steve, Slow Burn, Trauma, WIP, War Veteran Bucky Barnes, Work In Progress, fingers crossed yall i cant do anything
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2017-02-19
Updated: 2018-04-30
Packaged: 2018-09-25 15:26:24
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 12
Words: 63,887
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/9826385
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/dracomalfyaoi/pseuds/dracomalfyaoi
Summary: Bucky Barnes is a war veteran struggling with severe PTSD. Steve Rogers is his scrawny artist boyfriend, and somehow they're happy despite the bad lot that life keeps handing them. They're doing ok, until Bucky suddenly vanishes one day without a trace. When they find him, it's two years later and he's missing an arm and all his memories.All there's left to do is try to piece together what they once had, and what can still be.





	1. Prologue

James Buchanan Barnes was a strong man. He knew war- the war of bloody baby teeth from fights in the schoolyard, the war of listening to his best friend's breath rattling every winter, the war of praying for that sound until spring. He knew the war of kissing and dancing with girls who deserved someone who wasn't thinking of someone else, the war of looking at his best friend with his heart in his throat and keeping his mouth closed because love and war were the same and his words could be a rescue or a bomb. He learned about the war of loving someone too scrappy for their own damn good, the war where holding hands was more offensive than shooting a choice finger, the war of ignoring war and loving instead. Bucky's entire life had been war, and it had left him with a boyfriend he adored more than anything. He'd been a soldier since he was seven years old, so it made perfect sense when he turned eighteen for him to make it official. 

James Barnes was too good a soldier. He didn't fight for victory, but for peace- victory meant bombing every town and shooting every person not wearing the same colors as yourself. Peace meant almost getting a dishnorable discharge after kicking the ass of your superior because he tried harassing a female recruit. Peace meant sharing food with the tiny pup that kept following the team around, and peace meant going back to a smoldering town because Bucky heard someone still screaming for help. Peace resulted in James Barnes being declared POW after walking into a trap centered around helping a civilian. 

There was a soldier missing from that war. The war went on months longer than anyone expected. James Barnes was considered dead, until someone finally shot the right guy in the head and the prisoners got to go home. There was no more fight for James Barnes to return to, not here at least. So he was sent back home, fighting a battle that existed only in his head but existed over and over again.

At least home had pizza. 

At least home had Steve. 

At least the dog came home with him.

But Bucky wasn't the same when he came home. He was meant to be a dead man, and he suspected that a touch of death had stayed with him even after the statement was retracted. He dreamt of blood and fire sometimes. His brain could blank out for minutes or sometimes even hours at a time. And some things Bucky was ready to patent as new scientific advances, because they could send him miles and months away in just a few seconds. 

Winter, he and Steve learned quickly, was the worst. He'd been doing okay, adjusting back to life at home and getting back on his feet. He'd been free for around six months, gotten a lowkey job at a small packaging and shipping place. Wellie- (Bucky had named the dog after H.G. Wells, using input from the English guy on his team to give her a 'girl version' of the name) had been great at keeping him active and offering company when people were too much, but when the cold weather set in his progress seemed to hit the rewind button. The nightmares got worse and more frequent. The snow and the wind and the biting cold all sent Bucky back to the months spent in Russia, and his periods of blankness or his body running on autopilot became almost more common than not. It was just the season, he'd assured Steve. Once the damn temperatures rose, he'd be fine. 

But Bucky was gone before spring came. 

He didn't leave a note, or a trace of why he left. He didn't even bring anything, not even his wallet or phone or keys. Just the clothes he must have been wearing. It was as if a timer had been set on how much borrowed time Bucky had after escaping death, and before Christmas came it ran out.

\----------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------

Steven Grant Rogers spent most of his life fighting battles that were meant to be bigger than him, that was just the sort of thing that happened when you were born short and scrawny and with enough ailments to fill up more than half of the check boxes on any given sheet of insurance information. Steve was born a fighter, Bucky had just joined his one man battle against the world a little later, made things a little easier- bruises and cuts always seemed to sting a little bit less when he got them with Bucky at his side. 

The step from best friend to boyfriend came about as natural to them as stranger to best friend had; it was just that simple, even if they spent far too long mutually pining over one another while convinced that the other couldn't have feelings. Steve and Bucky were just an inevitability, a sure thing, something they'd both take until the end of the line no matter how far that really was. Steve spent a lot of time thinking about things like that while Bucky was overseas, about how any day he could get a formally addressed letter that told him James Buchanan Barnes had been killed in action. His art at the time had reflected that; pieces about longing, about fear, and those were just the ones that gained some attention. 

And then the letter came and the words Missing In Action seemed to plaster themselves over every inch of his being. He stopped painting, for months he couldn't even look at his easel. The day they told him that sergeant Barnes was presumed dead was the day he ripped almost every page out of his sketchbook. The pieces littered their apartment for weeks, every time he convinced himself he had gotten them all he found another hidden behind a chair or under a desk. Not his proudest moment. 

But then Bucky wasn't dead, then he was home, then he was safe and for a while all Steve wanted to do was draw him. He relearned the shapes of Bucky's face, the way shadows fell differently across his cheekbones, and how his eyes would unfocus when his he remembered something long ago and far away. His art turned angry after that- never at Bucky, it'd always been him and Bucky against everything, but at the politicians and the war profiteers and those who felt national pride and imperialism were one and the same. That art got a /lot/ of attention, everybody loved to hate a political statement after all. This was the stuff that really threw him fully into the light, and it made sense, really.Steve Rogers had spent his life fighting battles, now he'd just figured out how to do it with a paintbrush instead of a scrawny little fist. 

Steve may have loved the recognition, but he loved Bucky more. Bucky who spoke in nightmares and lived with a little more of a shadow in him than he'd had before he shipped out. It was as if the air in the room weighed down heavier on him than it did anyone else, and maybe Steve wasn't an expert by any means but he'd survived enough asthma attacks to know how much a single breath could weigh. So he did everything he could, he was a shoulder when Bucky needed that, made himself scarce when Wellie was all the interaction he could handle that day. Bucky Barnes was still his best friend and nothing would ever change that fact. 

When winter came, the holiday that used to fill him with so much joy was suddenly an insurmountable challenge to be fought every single day. The cold weather had never been good for his health but this was something on a different scale entirely. Bucky hated the snow and the cold and it was all Steve could do to chase away one set of nightmares before another was taking its place. Bucky promised that it was just the weather, that this would melt with the chill and that it was all temporary. 

And then one cold day in December James Buchanan Barnes walked out of Steve's life and he didn't come back. 

 

Steve plastered every street pole and window with Bucky's picture. He called friends, neighbors, and strangers and asked them to keep their eyes out, to let him come home safe. He got desperate, went to church for the first time since his mother died and prayed and prayed and prayed for him to come home, then for him to be safe, and finally just for him to be alive somewhere. He walked to the police station a thousand times, he handed out flyers to anyone that would take them, he drank too much coffee and visited dangerous neighborhoods and he stopped caring because Bucky was /out there/ somewhere. 

The trouble with pushing that hard was that something was bound to break eventually, and Steve might have kept pushing through that too if that break hadn't come in the form of a meningitis induced seizure. 

Everything had passed in a blur for a while after that. They fitted him with brand new hearing aids to improve what the sickness had taken, told him that he was lucky he hadn't gone completely deaf, and told him to go home and get some rest. That was when Sam stepped in- Officer Wilson had been the man in charge of Bucky's missing persons case, safe to say they'd seen a lot of each other in the past few months. Sam was the first to visit him in the hospital, first to tell him that getting himself killed looking for Bucky wasn't going to be good for anyone, first one to tell him six months later that he didn't have to hate himself for putting Bucky's things into boxes and hiding them in the back of the closet where he didn't have to spend every day looking at them anymore. 

Steve started painting again after that. He had to buy a new easel but he still started painting again. He went out with Sam, he made new friends, and the pretend smiles he plastered on became more and more convincing until they were all but second nature. He adjusted, and Sam had been there to see the best and worst parts of that change. He'd never been afraid to tell that to Steve, either.  
\----------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------

Over two years later, the pain had eased. Steve missed Bucky almost every day instead of every day, and the pain was no longer overwhelming. He could swallow the sudden lumps in his throat and continue shopping or laughing at a joke, and with another mouthful of water or alcohol the pain could be ignored again. Wellie stopped waiting at the door and crying when it was time to go to sleep and Bucky still wasn’t home. Sam no longer had to look inside his case file and wonder how someone could leave his best friend, especially if Bucky was as great as Steve said. The hole wasn’t gone, not by any means. Steve still couldn’t play tug of war with Wellie and win like Bucky could, he couldn’t take her on such long walks. He couldn’t look too long at a man in a military uniform, or go to Coney Island. He couldn’t date. He could smile and laugh again, he could say that as a person he no longer felt like he was drowning every day and was probably reasonably close to being happy, but the hole that Bucky Barnes had left in his life was never really going to disappear.  
\----------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------

The homeless man wedged behind a dumpster in an alley on forty-second street with less than two year’s worth of memories in him didn’t know anything about that. Nobody wanted him, he knew that as well as he knew the cold was awful, losing an arm hurt like a bitch and that he’d been strapped down and electrocuted before and would rather die out in the cold than risk having it happen again.


	2. Who the Hell is Bucky?

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This switches POV between Sam and Bucky. Bucky only refers to himself as 'he' in his stream of consciousness, because as far as he's concerned he doesn't have a name. I promise it's stylistic, not just an incapability to use proper nouns. He'll start using his name soon.

Sam Wilson had had just about fucking enough of this. 

Of course it was his turn to handle the call in about some fistfight outside a restaurant that just happened to take place at 2 am. Sam actually thought for a moment that it sounded like a kind of fight that Steve might get himself into, but this time it apparently wasn't his fault, just some one armed homeless man that was more than likely hanging out behind the dumpsters looking for a quick meal and a some kind of shelter from the worst of the cold and had started a fight after a bit too much to drink. Sam would tell him to move along, maybe give the guy some information on shelters nearby if he didn’t look too drunk or stoned, and then call it a night. 

It was snowing pretty heavily as he carefully steered the cruiser down the street and parked it down on the corner. He’d always loved the sound of snow crunching under his feet; it was peaceful and quiet, and the exact opposite of the dust of Afghanistan. He liked turning around and seeing the tracks, knowing you could make your mark on the world but also count that it would either melt away or be covered up by more of the pure white. That was one nice thing about being called out at two in the morning; New York never truly slept, but it quieted down enough this late for the snow to still have that pure-white sparkling quality. 

Sam wasn’t thinking about that as he trudged down towards the alley behind the Italian restaurant. He was thinking that it was cold as all hell, cold enough that it was dangerous even for New York City’s most seasoned bums. Coldest night they’d had in years, was what was being passed around the office. New York was always cold as shit, but even Sam had noticed this windy snap and made sure to glance Steve over and check for extra layers every time they hung out over the past few weeks. He didn’t hover, per se, but Steve wasn’t exactly the best at making sure he was always in tip top shape. At first Sam had thought it was just a side effect of his grief, but as their friendship grew and Steve’s pining subsided, Sam began to realize that Steve really did just forget or refuse to acknowledge that his skinny body needed a little extra TLC. Steve had offhandedly mentioned once that Bucky used to be the one who remembered to sew up holes and double up socks. Sam had stopped grilling him after that, but he did adopt what he assumed to be Steve’s ex’s habit and start checking to see that Steve was warm enough after the advanced meningitis that nearly took his life. 

Shaking himself from his thoughts, Sam glanced down at his tracks in the snow- in front it was pure white, but behind him he could see the print of his boot. Most were still white, or had a touch of gray, but the last one had a smudge of red.

He scuffed his shoe across the street in a wide arc and confirmed his hunch- more red appeared in thin streaks, not yet frozen blood revealed as Sam swiped away the most recent dusting of snow. It didn’t look like a lot, but it meant that some sort of weapon had been involved in the fight instead of just a couple of drunks hitting each other in a competition for the best dumpster to sleep behind. Sam rested his hand on his taser- he hated even pulling out the gun, the taser did all the ‘stopping the bad guy in his tracks’ with much less of the ‘death or lifelong trauma and injury’.

Nobody could say police work didn’t keep you on your toes.

Scuffing along the snowy street more showed that the blood actually seemed to lead to the alleyway across from the one he’d been directed to. That was a bit odd- if the guy figured out that he needed to clear the area, he would probably be smart enough to know that twelve feet wasn’t exactly far enough away. Was he injured? No, probably just too inebriated to make it far. Sam hoped that was it, as it was definitely the simplest solution to this. If the guy really was drunk, Sam could charge for public intoxication and take him to the station so he’d have somewhere safe and dry to stay the night. A lot of these guys wouldn’t go to the shelters- some wouldn’t take them for reasons that made Sam’s blood boil, some were full, some demanded certain information that the guys on the street didn’t want to give up. Sometimes the guys just couldn’t handle being somewhere safe and warm, it was too different from the constant terror that played on the backs of their eyelids. Sam could sympathize with that. He kept flyers for all sorts of therapy groups in his glovebox, and he liked to think that some of the people he’d talked to had actually gone to them. 

None of the tragic or uncommon scenarios that had been passing through Sam’s head for the past minute or so could have prepared him for what he saw when he ventured into the alleyway that night. Shining his flashlight down the narrow space immediately revealed a decently large person hunched over on the ground, back rested against the dumpster. That by itself was a sign that this man wasn’t in his right mind- normally bums would wedge themselves between the dumpster and the wall, or under the dumpsters, to preserve heat. Walking closer, he realized that the man didn’t even have any newspapers covering him. He was either new to the streets (highly unlikely, judging from the general grunginess of his demeanor), drunk past the point of coherency, or pretty messed up in some other way. Sam would shake him awake, send him on his way with some self help pamphlets and some cash or take him back to sleep away the drugs or alcohol at the precinct, and then be on his way. 

That had been the plan at least, right up until he took another few steps into that dirty back alley behind the restaurant and came face to face with a ghost. Like an actual, honest to God ghost; that was what you called the guy whose face you'd seen a thousand times over with the word 'missing' printed under it, right? The guy printed out on paper and clutched by the most determined man Sam had ever met in his life, the guy plastered on every surface of New York until Steve couldn’t afford any more ink, the guy who had somehow gotten the man devoted to justice and equality even at the expense of his own well-being to somehow deem him good enough in this dirty world to fall hopelessly in love with him. James Barnes, whose case had stayed open longer than any in anyone at the office’s memory simply because Steve showed up every damn day and wouldn’t leave until he was sure something was being done.When he'd first gotten the case he'd hoped it was just an unloyal boyfriend eloping with his new favorite, but when not a cent had been taken from his account, his passport was still locked up in a safe, and even his /wallet/ had been left behind the next obvious choice was foul play. Barnes was a big guy, but no one could track him even one foot outside his apartment, it was like he'd just blinked off the face of the earth one day. It didn't take long for the case to go cold and end up pushed into some back filing room but without a body that was all it could be, another missing persons where the person stayed just that. But he wasn't anymore, James Barnes was alive and hiding behind a dumpster outside some shitty Italian place. Sam had accepted that a man who suddenly disappeared without any information and left all his personal belongings behind either didn’t want to be found, or wasn’t going to be found in any condition that was worth bringing him home in. When his bank account had been untouched for weeks, Sam had had to assume the worst. He didn’t think Steve ever accepted that Bucky was most likely dead, but after about six months he did resign that he was gone. Sam had helped him pack up Bucky’s things, helped him get back out in the world without bringing a new stack of ‘missing’ posters with him. If you had asked him about any other case, any other person, Sam Wilson may have at best been able to offer a 'they might look familiar, I'd have to go over the files again'. But he knew this case like the back of his hand- the only thing he knew better than Bucky’s face, even after two years and a missing left arm, even with long hair and a beard, was the pain that its absence had caused his best friend. 

Sam had been frozen as all of this went through his head, his eyes glued to the ghost on the ground in front of him. 

"Bucky? Bucky Barnes?" He asked, moving slowly towards the man. "Jesus, what happened to you man?" Steve was going to... He was going to do something, that was for sure.

Jesus, this was-- this was absolutely not the type of thing he'd been prepared to deal with tonight. What was the protocol for this? Was there even any? Two years missing and suddenly he's found hanging out behind dumpsters and punching people on Sam Wilson's patrol route. Sam raised a hand, clicking his radio on to speak while watching Bucky the whole time.

"I'm uh-- gonna need an ambulance at 4th and Jefferson, we've got a 10-57 here." He said, waiting for the confirmation before kneeling down to Bucky's level. 

"My name is officer Sam Wilson, I'm a friend of Steve's. You're safe now." He explained, voice careful but calm, the way a therapist might sound. "You've been through a lot, James, but I'm going to get you some help. There's an ambulance coming to check you over and make sure you're not hurt, we'll take you down to the hospital and get you looked at and then we're going to get you home." Bucky was probably scared, he had opened his eyes and was staring at Sam without even a flicker of recognition for Steve’s name. Maybe he was in shock, or concussed. One of those had to be the reason he wasn’t reacting. The ghost was alive, if he loved Steve a tenth as much as Steve had loved him then he’d be reacting a hell of a lot more than this right now. There was still the question of what the /fuck/ he was doing here and why he'd never thought to maybe just go home or at least pick up a goddamn payphone and let Steve know he was still alive, but those were all things that could be answered later. 

Right, later. Later when he had to call Steve and tell him something, because he'd spent the last two years accepting the fact that his best friend and the person he loved was never coming back and now he was right here. God, what was that conversation going to be like? What would Steve do? What would he say? What could anyone say at a time like this? It wasn't like they made a 'Dummy's Guide To Discovering Your Dead Boyfriend Isn't Dead'. That was a future worry though, right now his main goal was making sure that Barnes was okay enough to make it to the hospital. He wasn't about to let this guy die on him now that they'd finally found him.

"Are you hurt? Can you walk?" He asked, standing up again and slowly offering his hand to help Bucky up off the ground. Ready to take the ghost back home, to the family waiting for him.  
\----------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------

 

 

He hated winter. 

He didn't know if he'd always hated winter, if there was a specific reason. Currently, he hated the cold and the way it made the stump of his left arm ache like all hell. He hated the sudden vanishing of good will (everyone was willing to help out during December and even New Year's, but around February self-improvement wasn't an issue any more and he was a scary homeless man sitting in the shadows). At least in summer there was shade. It was hot as all hell and awful, but there was a specific kind of misery that came with the ice and snow. Maybe whoever he used to be knew what it was. 

Whoever he'd been, wasn't worth identifying. Most people would have gone to a hospital when they lost an arm and all of their memories. And he had planned on it, honestly. Except outside the hospital, he'd seen some woman on a gurney and just... lost it. He could remember his heart pounding and puking in the alley beside the building, and then he was waking up behind some library with his arm at least patched up enough to survive. He’d wondered if he'd been a doctor, or a soldier. Probably the latter, because what else would've fucked him up that bad? His next two attempts to get medical assistance after losing the arm or even to get himself identified went even worse than the initial one, and he'd given up. He'd probably been on the streets for years, some traumatized dude who couldn't make it in the real world. He was pretty sure he'd been a soldier. He knew how to fight and how to be hungry, knew how to sew up an arm enough to not die. That's about all he could do now- not die. He couldn't get help. He couldn't get a job (the one interviewer who would talk to him after seeing his depressing lack of information had insisted that identification was needed, and that he needed to go to a hospital if he couldn't remember- he'd punched the guy and ran away). All he could do was sit here in the dark as shit alley that smelled like food from the dumpster and watch the snowflakes falling onto the already pure-white ground. He was feeling dizzy with hunger and cold. It was dangerous as all hell to be out here in this weather, but when he'd tried to go to a shelter they'd tried to get him to a hospital and he ran. He'd survived last year, with major blood loss. He was skinnier now, and sick, and it definitely was the coldest night he'd noticed on the streets. Still, he'd survived February last year, he would do it again. He rested his head against the icy bricks and let his eyes drift shut. It felt cold enough to die, but he’d been out here long enough to know that you could stand a lot more pain than you thought you could and still survive. It felt icy even wedged between the dumpster and the wall and covered in old newspapers, but he was probably just feeling it more than usual because he was sick. He’d slept through bone-chilling nights before and still woken up the next morning. Life just wasn’t kind enough to hand death over that easily. 

"No...no, please stop."

He raised his head at the trembling voice from the opposite alleyway, disgruntled resignation already settling in. It was definitely a girl’s voice, and she didn’t sound like an adult. He really, really didn't want to stand up right now, but he didn't think he was the kind of person to not do anything when others needed help. It seemed really important that he helped. Maybe that was the supposed soldier in him.

"Stop it, I'll scream- HELP!" 

He was on his feet faster than he'd expected, sprinting towards the girl's scream. The snow made his feet skid as he rounded the corner, but he held his footing enough to scramble into the alleyway towards the two scrawny kids. The girl looked like she was in high school, and he didn't bother checking out the guy. All he had to do was dodge a punch, then land his own before each kid was running in a different direction. Fine, the girl was safe and the guy actually looked like he was barely on his feet. As long as the chick was safe, he didn't care. He could probably cross 'cop' off the list of possible jobs he used to have. A cop would’ve cared about victory, about finding out what the hell the two kids were doing out so late. He just cared that the punks had gotten out of here and he had his peace back. 

He'd only taken about two steps out of the alley before he felt the sharp pain in his side and looked down to see the glint of metal.

"Fucking Christ." He muttered, yanking the blade out with a grunt at the pain. It was just a small pocketknife, too short and not enough blood on it for any life threatening damage to have been done. Not like he could go to a hospital if it had, anyways. He was pretty sure he’d feel it if something important had gotten poked, but all he really felt was tired and numb. He pocketed the knife, sure it would come in handy, but when he took a step to head back to his dumpster he let out a soft groan of pain. He was suddenly feeling the wound now that he’d shifted his weight, and while he stood by his decision that it wasn’t life threatening it was pretty deep for a punkass kid with a walmart pocket knife. The bastard had dragged it too, making it wider than it had to be. Just what he needed.

He was confident the snow would cover the sparse blood trail that lead back to his alley before anyone came along. All he could do for now was collapse beside the dumpster and close his eyes, hoping that the tantalizing smell of food would at least trick him into feeling full while he slept.

 

It was working pretty well, until the dull whoosh of a car driving down the otherwise silent street woke him. He recognized the logo without having to read any of the writing on the side of the car- this wasn't the first time someone had called the cops on him, and it wouldn't be the last. Cops didn't like homeless people, so in return homeless people didn't like cops. All they ever did was shoo you, away from the one goddamn place you'd found that was semi comfortable and sheltered. They'd tell you where the shelters were, as if you were so fucking stupid you didn't know, and they never considered that maybe you didn't want to go to a shelter. They didn't arrest you too often, at least. Unless you were causing a major public disturbance, they'd let you be on your way. He appreciated that, at least. They'd kick you out into the cold, but as long as you didn't cause too much trouble they wouldn't take you anywhere you didn't want to go. 

He was almost certain he hadn't caused that much trouble. He hadn't even started it, he'd helped! He was a goddamn hero, the disabled helper that all these New Yorkers loved to jack off to- some half-starved amputee, some barely human thing had saved that poor kid. He better be getting a goddamn badge off that cop and nothing else.

As he listened to the footsteps drawing closer, he prayed to nothing that the snow had actually covered the blood, because if it was discovered he was bleeding the cop might get concerned. He glanced down, noticing a few red patches around himself. He scuffed them away with his boot, but for good measure he pulled out the pocket knife and squeezed it to slash his palm before shoving the blade back in his pocket. A cut on the hand was nothing to worry about, he could blame it for the blood and cover the stab wound. He'd have to somehow get new clothes after this, people got freaked out when you had too much blood on you. 

It was only when the cop rounded the corner that he thought to get scared. He was sick, had been for about half a week. He didn't know what, just knew he was coughing a lot and couldn't pull in enough air, and he felt weaker than normal. Wasn't sure if he was running temperatures. Plus he was half starved and now stabbed. He'd taken out the kid fine, but even a good fighter like himself couldn't take on a cop in this condition. Plus, he didn't feel like he could walk very far. There weren't many places to go any more- business owners had gotten real smart about their rights to shoo away trespassers, even when they were just huddling behind the goddamn dumpster at 2 am to try and keep warm. If he was told to move along and couldn't, the cop might try and take him somewhere. Either to jail for being a public nuisance, or to the hospital for- he didn't care what. Hospitals were bad, he didn't go to hospitals. Hospitals would hurt him, they would strap him down and coo lies in his ear and nobody would help him- 

He couldn't zone out right now, the way he often did when he started thinking about hospitals and the half-formed memories of pain and horror and restraints. He couldn't just wander away from this one, he needed all his wits about him. He couldn't physically fight the cop if he had to, he'd have to find a new escape plan. He did know that he couldn't let the cop know he was scared. You never showed that you were scared.

He had an odd feeling he'd learned that somewhere other than the streets.

Maybe the cop wouldn't see him. Dammit, he should've thought to slide under the dumpster. It was a testament to how out of it he was that he hadn't. Damn. He clenched his fist to control its trembling, glaring icily from between the greasy strands of hair that fell into his face. 

"Bucky?" 

Not what he was expecting to hear.

"Bucky Barnes? Jesus, what happened to you man?" 

The cop was moving closer. He shifted back, staying in his crouched position and feeling like a cornered wild animal. His heart was pounding- he didn't like strangers, meaning he didn't like people at all- but he kept his glare fierce. 

Don't show fear. 

He didn't know this man. He didn't know this man, and this man didn't know him because he'd been out here for over two years and somebody would have recognized him before he grew a beard and long hair and started looking like the garbage he slept beside. The cop must be mistaken. He knew he looked like an entirely different person from when he first found himself wandering the street, so the cop must recognize this shell and not the person he used to be. This wasn't the first time someone had given him a name. Other homeless people had tried out different ones on him, and he let them until he moved on, and then he forgot the name and let someone else call him whatever they pleased. He didn't have a name. 

He needed to communicate that thought to the cop, who was still moving closer and he could feel the dumpster at the back of his heel, and there was nowhere to run even assuming he could stand up again. He didn't have a name. He was a ghost and nobody knew him or cared about him, and he wouldn't have some jackass cop trying to tell him any different. 

"Who the hell is Bucky?"

He didn't trust this guy one bit. He didn't care what the guy's name was, he had no fucking clue who Steve was supposed to be. Who named their kid Steve nowadays anyway? When Sam tried to get down on his level, he shifted even further back, his back pressing against the icy metal of the dumpster behind him. Way to make him feel like a cornered animal. But no way in hell was he going to get in an ambulance. He would never go back to a hospital, back to the place where they gave him so many names not one of them meant anything any more (Soldat, собака, now James, Bucky, countless more) and hurt him and never let him leave. He could feel the acute pain in his sternum that meant he was going to start hyperventilating and losing focus soon, but he couldn't do that now because he was a cornered animal and couldn't lose focus or he was done for. 

"I'm not going to a hospital. I'm fine." His voice was scratchy and weak enough to immediately betray otherwise. He could feel the fear leaking into his eyes and his facial expressions, so he tried his best to make it look scary, like the fear of a wildcat or a bear and not the fear of a grown man who just wanted to run and run and run and never come back. 

"You can't make me go. I don't hafta do anything I don't want to, I have rights." Was that true? Everyone had at least some rights. Wasn't there a thing where people could refuse healthcare, even in life threatening situations? Autonomy or something. 

"You got the wrong guy." Shit, his speech was getting faster, trying to match the rate of his speeding heart. He held his one arm, palm still bloody, out in front of him in the universal signal for 'stay back', not that it would do any good. Cops did what they wanted. 

"I don't- I don't know who that is. I've never hearda Steve and I'm not- not-" His breathing was too fast for his phlegm-filled lungs, and he had to take half a minute to cough, heavy and hard and wracking his whole frame. He pressed back again and threw his hand up higher, just in case Same tried to come closer while he was unable to do anything. 

"I'm not him." He managed to gasp, raspy and whispery. "I don't have a name. I ain't got a home. Just-just lemme get outa here." 

He managed to make standing look a hell of a lot easier than it really was. The world tilted about fifty degrees, and as soon as he was out of Sam's earshot he was definitely planning on vomiting. His breathing was still too fast, and the lack of oxygen wasn't exactly helping his situation. He just needed to get out of here before the inescapable fear grabbed hold of him, because once it did he'd collapse and there'd be no convincing the cop he didn't need help. He still had the pocketknife. He didn't want to use it, because it wouldn't be any good as a threat and he'd have to actually go at the cop with it if he wanted to escape. And if it didn't work, he'd be a guy who'd assaulted a cop and he wouldn't be allowed any say in what they did to him.  
\----------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------

He seemed about as convinced that he was fine as he was about not being James, meaning of course that those were both very obviously untrue. The only problem was that he seemed to be much more insistent on being the wrong guy than he was on being fine. The words come out raspy, quick, and James himself has pressed every inch of himself back against the dumpster like maybe he could fuse himself into the metal if he tried hard enough. James Barnes has been on the street for two years and in that time he's turned himself into something more akin to a feral animal than a sick vet. 

Bucky stands but just barely, breathing hard already just from that. He's scared, that much was easy, but of what Sam can't even begin to guess. He stood a little straighter, squaring his shoulders and pulling on a face that's a little more stern and professional. He can't let Bucky go, not when he's already bleeding and not now that they've finally found him. The ambulance siren wailed in the distance, still faint enough to be a few minutes out. James definitely doesn't look like he's got a lot of running in him but if Sam's learned anything from his time on the force it's that people lashed out if you backed them too far into a corner. His hand went down to his belt, just resting on the taser as a silent assurance that it was still there.

"Sir, we've had you marked as missing for the past two years, I'm not legally allowed to let you just walk away from me right now." He explained, a drop of caution spilling into his concern. What was James running from? Why hadn't he come home? Why was he lying about it now? If he'd been on the streets for two years then he had to know he could have come back at any time, there had to be some piece to this puzzle that Sam was just missing. James couldn't honestly have just forgotten everything, stuff like that didn't happen outside of the movies. 

The ambulance was slowly drawing closer, it's siren echoing against the tall buildings. James wasn't about to leave without a fight.

"How about this, when the ambulance gets here we'll have an EMT check you out, if they give you a clean bill of health we'll skip the hospital altogether." He bargained, hand still on his taser. "After that we'll take you to the station, get your missing persons cleared, and you'll be free to go." 

He knew there were about fifty different catches in there to keep Bucky in his care until he could get ahold of Steve. Bucky had to have at least mild hypothermia, he looked hungry and in shock. No way would he get a clean bill of health. Then at the station, he could insist on the next of kin being notified and affirming that Bucky was in his right mind- no way could anybody look Steve Rogers in the face and insist that they didn’t know each other. It’d be like trying to tell the sun you’d never seen it before. That level of intensity was undeniable.  
\---------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------- 

 

"Two years?"

Bucky squeezed his eyes shut as the painful memory hit. Two years was when he'd lost his arm, and supposedly all his memories since that was the last thing he could remember. He could remember a few minutes or so, foggily, before the crash. He'd been walking. He was scared, he was doing something important. Or he needed to. He needed to stop wandering, to stop it and...do something else. For the life of him, he couldn't remember what. 

His brain felt like the outside pieces were breaking apart and floating away, like ice caps during global warming. Why the fuck could he remember that, but not his own goddamn name? He needed to focus. He might- might actually be someone. Maybe it really had just been rotten luck that had kept him on the streets. The cop- Sam- had known him. He made it sound like someone was looking for him- Stan? No, that tasted bitter just thinking the word. 

Steve. 

Someone called Steve was looking for him. Maybe him. He felt his mental blocks weakening. What if it was real? If he really was...Bucky? Or James. What if he could go inside and get warm and maybe eat something someone else hadn't taken a bite out of first, and he'd have a name that meant something and skinny, cold hands that pushed his hair away from his forehead and told him in a gentle but strong voice that things were going to be okay. 

His instincts were pessimistic, warning him that Steve wasn't real, he wasn't good enough to be anybody, this was just a way to drag him back to the hospital and strap him down again and laugh as his screams ripped through his throat until it bled. There was no way he'd get a clean bill of health, he couldn't breathe and he had a goddamn stab wound. He knew Sam's compromise was a lie. The only two possibilities presenting themselves to him were a tiny sliver of hope he'd never even bothered to consider before, and his absolute worst nightmares. All he needed was some kind of sign, to clue him in just a little bit.  
\----------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------

The time, that was what finally seemed to get through to him, or at the very least it was the closest they could get. Bucky seemed to be considering it, thinking about it, searching for some kind of truth to it. That had to be a good sign, right? Maybe all of this was real and maybe Bucky really didn't remember the him that had existed before the streets. They could figure it out later, they could have someone look him over and get him a hot meal and they were going to call Steve because holy shit it really was him. Bucky opened his eyes and Sam smiled, hand outstretching a little more for him. The only trouble was that Bucky wasn't looking at his eyes or his mouth or his hand.

James was looking at his taser. 

What happened next felt like it hadn't taken more than a second, a blink and miss it kind of moment. Sam registered the feeling of a knife slicing through the fabric of his officer's jacket and the sudden bloom of pain when that knife reached skin. He registered Bucky's desperate lurch forward, the near blinding flash of headlights down the alley, and then the tug of the trigger against his fingers as he pulled it back.

The wet sound of James hitting the pavement slush seemed to break whatever spell they were under. Sam clicked off the taser and jumped forward to check if he was okay, just as he heard the EMT’s rolling a gurney into the alleyway.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So, this is an adapted rp-turned-fic. The rp isn't finished, depending on my writing schedule this may or may not overtake it . So the style and everything that happens is very up in the air. Solid plans and cohesiveness are for suckers.


	3. James Barnes

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Poor baby :(

"Help me roll him onto his back!" 

Sam helped shift the wet lump onto the ground onto the gurney, staring at the smoggy sky instead of curled up on the ground. He took the spare second to cuff the tased guy’s hand to the rail and just like that, they were moving back towards the light of the ambulance, pushing him up and into the back where they could get a proper look at him.

"You still with me, big guy? My name's Clint Barton, you've been stabbed but I'm here to help. Can you give me your name, sir?" He shone a penlight into his eyes- the guy pulled away like it hurt, which meant he was at least conscious but probably drunk or hungover- except Clint didn’t smell any alcohol, which shifted his hypothesis over towards drugs. They’d do a test at the hospital. 

"Get some fluids in him, someone start pressing down on that stab wound before he loses any more blood." Clint instructed, attention moving from the patient to his partner and back again. "I need you to breathe for me sir, in and out just like this." He breathed in and out slowly and exaggeratedly, counting by fives. "Nice and easy, alright?"

The guy was conscious, he just...wouldn’t respond. He was totally out of it, definitely worse than anyone should be from a single tasing. He'd hit the ground pretty hard, could be that he had a concussion, no real way to tell until they got him to the hospital and managed something other than a quick washout and a field bandaging of the knife wound. Thankfully it seemed to be pretty small, some kind of cheap pocket or swiss army knife. It didn’t even look like anything was seriously wrong, and he must have been lucid enough to give the cop a reason to tase him. Clint had worked in New York for long enough to get on some sort of name basis with most of the officers. He’d dealt with Sam several times before, and held him in a pretty high respect. He strongly believed that Wilson wouldn’t have tased a man who barely seemed like he understood what was going on. He glanced over where Sam stood- yup, there was a bloody gash on his arm and a small pocketknife still on the ground where the guy now on the gurney had been laying. 

Ok, saying that the man wasn’t responding was a lie. He’d flinched at the light, and he wasn’t struggling or acknowledging Clint’s instructions or questions, but he was muttering something under his break. Clint couldn’t hear exactly what, but he did pick up an apparent rhythm to the whispered gibberish. He shrugged; people reacted weirdly to being tased sometimes. Sharon helped him load the gurney into the ambulance, and then he turned back to Sam. 

“You probably need checked out as well, that cut might need stitches. I gotta deal with our pal, but do you want some gauze for the drive over?”

“No thanks, I got a first aid kid in the car. You’re about to have your hands full with that guy, anyways. Be careful, he doesn’t like hospitals. At all.” 

“Yeah? He say so?”

“Not exactly. I think- and I’m right most of the time- he’s a missing persons case. He’s how I met my best buddy, the guy wouldn’t leave us alone for months cause he was convinced Bucky needed to be found. That’s his name, by the way, if I’m right.”

“Bucky?”

“Yeah, well, James Buchanan. My pal nicknamed him Bucky, said it was probably what he’d most likely respond to.” 

“There a reason he stabbed you?”

“I think he thought I was going to tase him.”

“Were you?”

“Didn’t want to. He was starting to look agitated, if he’s anything like my buddy then he’s not exactly opposed to violence.”

“Why? Didn’t want to be found?”

“Didn’t believe me. He says he’s not the guy I think he is, except I spent about six months with his face shoved under my nose, pictures from all different angles. It’s weird. He acted like he had no idea who my pal, Steve, is, whe they grew up together. I’ve seen the pictures. Kept insisting he didn’t have a name, that he wasn’t the guy I thought he was. I’m legally obligated to get his missing persons cleared, but he got too freaked out hearing that he had to go to a hospital. Must’ve seen my hand on my taser and snapped. But it’s not like he wanted to stay out here. I’ve met guys like that, they act differently. He just seemed totally convinced he had no identity, except he’s probably the only guy in my files I’d recognize my face alone.”

“What’re the odds.” Clint furrowed his eyebrows as he hoisted himself up into the ambulance and shut one of the doors to try and keep some of the heat in. “Anything else I should know?”

“Yeah. If he’s James, my buddy says he was a POW. Had all sorts of fucked up stuff done to him, gets real freaked out about medical stuff. Take it easy on him?” Steve had had his own aversion to hospitals- at first Sam thought he was just worried about the bills, but when they’d almost had a fight about Steve not getting what was almost certainly pneumonia checked out, he’d dropped that little bomb. Hospitals had been the places where Bucky frantically messed with their budget to see how many days they could afford for Steve to stay when he got really sick, and then later they became the places that had a near 200 pound man cowering in fear from the painful memories they stirred up. Sam hadn’t been able to picture it, until he saw the same man stare up at him like a cornered animal just for being given a name. 

“Got it. I’m assuming your guys are gonna contact his next of kin, instead of ours?”

“Yeah. I’m gonna meet you at the hospital, actually. My night just got a whole lot longer. Grey Memorial?”

“Yeah, that’s us. Take care, Sam.” Clint shut the door and turned to face Bucky, who was being checked out and patched up by Sharon. 

No one could say being an EMT didn’t keep you on your toes.  
\----------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------

 

It was happening again. 

His head felt like it was in a fog. He registered pain- all over, and in his head and stomach and kind of in his throat which meant he wanted to throw up but he couldn't do that, because he was chained down again. He didn't register that this was one of the only times he could even grasp at an 'again' that had taken place before the two years he had of memory. He just knew he was chained and in pain again, it was happening all over again and there would be no escape because they wouldn't let him go twice. 

Someone had shone a light in his eyes, which he tried to pull back from. Then the light was gone, and there was a new man standing over him. His lips were moving. He couldn't hear anything over the ringing in his ears. The man standing over him looked like he was trying to tell him something. Then he was staring at a white ceiling, still unable to hear what was going on between the now subsiding ringing and the words he could hear desperately whispered unconsciously from his own lips. 

Just incomprehensible whispers, but as soon as he noticed it his voice grew louder. He had no idea what he was saying, just that it sounded desperate. He could hear himself gasping untintelligible noises, his voice pitching higher until he managed to fight hard enough to bring it back down. 

"James Barnes, 32557038. James Barnes, 32557038, James Barnes 32557038 James Barnes 32557038-" 

The man was standing over him again, and he seemed to be exaggerating his breathing. Loathe as he was to doing what they wanted, it might be nice to have air in his lungs again and feel like his sternum wasn't breaking any more. It took what felt like several minutes, but it worked. His breathing slowly, slowly returned to normal, and his words died away to a tiny whisper along with his panic. He felt pretty zoned out, staring blankly at the wall of the ambulance and not bothering to try and decipher whatever was coming out of his mouth for now. If he focused, he was pretty sure he was actually speaking comprehensible words, but his brain felt like it’d been stuck in a toaster and then dropped into a bathtub. 

"James...James Barnes. 3255- 32...32557..." 

 

 

He blinked, raising his head as his focus returned to him. He'd been muttering something. He tried to make his tongue move again, but nothing came. What the hell had he been saying? 

That didn't matter, because when he tried to move he felt a familiar (Familiar? What a laugh) tug on his wrist. Immediately he sat bolt upright, pulling fiercely but fruitlessly on the damned metal cuff. 

"Lemme go." He looked half crazed, eyes flicking around until they settled on the medic. Clint? Was he called Clint? Why the hell would he think he was called Clint? 

"You got the wrong guy. I'm fine, I can handle this, I'm not who they say I am. You gotta let me go."

"I'm gonna need you to lay back down James, you've been stabbed and you might have hit your head during the fall. We can call anyone you need once we get to the hospital, that's what those numbers are, right?" The woman gently pressed on his chest, but he refused to lie back down on the gurney they had him handcuffed to. 

Who the fuck was this James person? Did they all just live in a world where they gave each other names on a whim now? It must just be another one of those strategies to break him- call him so many names he didn’t know which one was right any more, depend on his captors for any version of reality, even if it was just going to change again in three day’s time. 

"What...what numbers?"

Had he been saying numbers? Sounded like something from a cheesy sci fi novel. He couldn't remember ever actually reading a sci fi novel, but he was pretty sure he liked them. Living them, not so much. 

"I don't...remember." Had no one realized that yet? He'd told them over and over he didn't know who the hell Bucky or James or Steve was, and that hadn't done anything. Maybe he wasn't explaining clearly enough. “Anything.” He had yet to lie back down despite the woman's gentle pressure against his chest, he was too busy turning his desperate eyes between the two medics. 

"I don't know. I don't know who the hell Bucky is or James or Steve, I don't know why I'm here or what happened the first time, I don't know what numbers you're talking about, I don't know who the fuck I am. I don't remember, I just...woke up two years ago as a ghost and... what the fuck is going on?" 

He could feel his chest aching again. What if they got mad? He'd be in for worlds more pain if he pissed them off, but the confusion over who he was didn't even seem malicious. They just seemed confused. He struggled, focusing on measuring his breathing so he wouldn't be taken hold by the all-consuming panic before at least maybe getting some answers.

 

The two people in front of him exchanged an uneasy glance. 

“Amnesia?” The man, possibly Clint, offered. 

“I’ve only seen it in temporary cases. After accidents, it always wears off in less than 72 hours. If it’s really been two years... that’s the end spectrum even of fugue states. Did Wilson tell you anything?”

“Yeah, and this guy’s the prime candidate for a fugue. You just never really think you’re gonna deal with it personally, it’s so damn rare...” Possibly Clint rubbed the bridge of his nose and looked away from the woman. 

"Alright, how about this? If you lay back down for me I'll tell you everything I know and then everything I'm pretty sure about. That sound fair to you?" 

 

He took several seconds to consider what Clint had said. He was at least acting like he believed him, that he’d forgotten everything that had happened prior to the last two years. He wasn't spouting more names that he couldn't remember, he was actually trying to form a compromise. A compromise that didn't involve 'home' or 'Steve' or a hundred other things that didn't belong to him. 

He had a hundred questions. What the numbers were, maybe he could identify them. Was he really James? Who was the Bucky Sam had mentioned earlier? Did Steve exist? Was he a brother? Best friend? Father, someone else? 

Slowly, he lay back down, eyes now glued to Clint. He still looked terrified, but his breathing was controlled and he wasn't fighting the cuff. For the first time all night, in all his memory, he had just a tiny sliver of hope that someone would be able to explain to him what the hell was wrong.  
\----------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------

Clint and Sharon both let out twin sighs of relief when Bucky lay back down and she could return to dressing his wound instead of trying to keep him from leaping out of a moving vehicle. But the happiness over the small victory died almost as quickly as it was born when Bucky spoke next. 

"Please...please don't hurt me.” He was lying back down and letting Sharon stitch him up, vulnerable as anything. And the fear on his face was gut-wrenching. 

"I don't know anything. I can't tell you or do anything for you, so please, just... please don't hurt me." He finished in a raspy whisper. 

This wasn't the jokey, 'I'm afraid of needles' kind of request, it was the type of begging someone does when they've survived something terrible and they're afraid it's about to happen all over again. Clint looked over at Sharon, glad to see her mortified expression mirrored his own, before he turned back to James. Bucky. 

"We definitely don't have any plans on hurting you, I can tell you that much. The doctors and nurses over at Grey's are gonna be the same too, all we want is to make sure that you're okay. That's pretty much my job, did all the required training for it and everything." He tried to offer up a little bit of humor, though it sounded weak to even him; what kind of places had this guy been to in his life that he had to ask an EMT not to hurt him? This wasn’t the first time he’d had a PTSD-ridden vet in the ambulance, but the ones that didn’t understand he was there to help just tried to attack. It took a lot to get these guys to resort to this quiet desperation, and Clint’s stomach turned just thinking about what this poor guy must be thinking about. 

With James down, it was his turn to make good on his end of the bargain, Clint took a moment to adjust the speed of the drip before looking back at him. 

"Ok. So I know you're malnourished and dehydrated, that's why Sharon’s got you on a saline drip right here, to help get some water back into your body. That also means you've been out there for a while. The way you're breathing tells me you're sick, I couldn't tell you with what though. And the fact that Officer Wilson called you in as a missing person means that I know there was at least one person out there looking for you. Officer Wilsontells me that if you are who he thinks you are, your names is James Buchanan and you go by Bucky. You were a POW, and I think you might be confusing memories of what happened to you overseas with what hospitals in America do. I know you’re experiencing some sort of memory loss. I think you've gone through a lot. I also think we're going to be able to figure out a lot more once we get to the hospital. That sound good to you?"  
\----------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------

He could've told him about the malnourishment. He could've told about the dehydration, the rattling in his chest, and the months and months of confusion and loneliness and aches and just trying to survive to the next day. He still didn't know what he was supposed to make of the 'missing person' thing. It'd been two years. He looked nothing like he used to, he was ratty and unkempt and gaunt and haunted. If he couldn't recognize himself in the mirror, he couldn't imagine that anyone else would be able to. 

He wished they would take off the handcuff. He didn't bother asking, because he knew he'd try to run and probably end up getting hit by a car (again), and they probably knew the same. He at least wished they'd give him something to distract from it. Some kind of texture that wasn't metal around his cold wrist. Every time he so much as shifted, he could feel the metal and a lurch in his stomach that he couldn't place but couldn't deny. It meant something bad. It meant a lot of pain, it meant begging and screams being ignored. 

It meant war.

Neither medic had hurt him yet. Trust was beyond him, but he could hold onto the fact that they hadn't hurt him yet to at least fend off panicking again. Possibly Clint spoke like an honest man. He couldn't trust that he was telling the truth about what that cop had said, or about hospitals and his memories of electricity shot through his head until he couldn’t hear anything but an electric buzz, but he could at least try and not suspect the worst from him. 

He was irritated to find that he actually wished that the cop was here. He could ask him who James, Bucky, and Steve were. Who he was supposed to be. He'd rather Possibly Clint be the one he could ask those questions, but Possibly Clint knew about as much as he did about himself. There were only a few questions he had that Possibly Clint might know, each more nerve wracking than the last. 

"Can you tell me what the numbers were?" 

They seemed to think it was a phone number. Maybe he'd recognize it, he knew a few area codes and that 1-800 was toll free. Being a ghost on the street was okay, but now that he was being thrust into the harsh light of identification, he was desperate for any scrap of personhood he could find. Even a string of numbers.

He watched Possibly Clint huff and focus, trying to recall what he’d been muttering under his breath earlier. Sharon was the one to speak up, reciting the numbers in a voice cool and calming like a summer breeze. She should speak more, he found himself thinking. She seemed so sure and steady about everything, it helped him trust that what she was saying wasn’t just another intricate ploy to torture him. 

“32557038. It’s not the right length for a phone number. Maybe a pager or a fax number. Or, if Sam’s right and you’re a POW, it sounds like a military ID. Might be something you tried pretty hard to remember when you were locked up. You really don’t remember saying it?”

He shook his head- he didn't feel like explaining that some things caused him to blank out anywhere from minutes to a day or two with little to no memory of what had happened. He didn't know why, and sometimes there didn't even seem to be a correlation. Besides, he'd seen their faces when he'd asked them not to hurt him, and didn't want to give more cause to see people who dealt with horrific accidents only a daily basis look at him that way again. 

The ambulance turned, and slowed to a stop; Possibly Clint jumped to his feet and opened the doors, and he and Sharon lowered the gurney down onto the curb outside of a hospital. 

"We're going in now, the ER's pretty quiet this time of night but I'll make sure we get someone to see you within the next year. They're probably gonna want to look you over, they might take a few blood samples too but that should be the worst of it for right now. You’re pretty tough, big guy, I’m sure you’ll be okay.”

If he weren't restrained, he was pretty sure he'd have bolted the moment Possibly Clint mentioned the ER. All he could do just now was swallow the rising bile and clench his fist. It still didn't completely hide the shaking. He greatly appreciated the moment Possibly Clint took to tell him what was happening instead of just throwing him into the thick of it. Possibly Clint really seemed like a good guy. He didn't like Sam in the slightest, but Possibly Clint at least managed to convince him he wasn't in immediate peril. Which, given the circumstances, wasn't far from a miracle.

"Wait." 

The word slipped out before he could even register it, but once it had he was a little relieved. Possibly Clint wouldn't be his real doctor, he'd be meeting a shit ton more strangers who could do anything to him, and he was chained to a bed. As anxious as that made him, there was nothing he orthe EMT’s could do about it. He did trust (dare he use the word?) him with one question, though. He may not like the answer, but Possibly Clint didn't know him enough to insist he was the right guy, and he didn't seem the type to bullshit.

"What if it's really not me? I'm the wrong guy, I'm not...him, I'm just some random bum off the streets who looks a little like the poor sonovabitch they're looking for. What'll they do to me then?" If nobody wanted him back, would they keep him in the hospital? Insist that his tears and his screams were all in the name of science, and that if he didn’t want to be here he shouldn’t have signed up for the war?

What war?

"Well.... the circumstances surrounding this whole thing are a little bit special, but I'm gonna go ahead and say that if you're not the guy they think you are then they'll just go by the book. Every ER gets homeless people in from time to time, some are looking for pills, some want a warm bed for a few hours, and some actually need help like you. If you're not him then I think they'll finish patching you up, maybe get you something for that rattle in your lungs, and send you on your way. That’s not so bad, right? That’s all you wanted when we picked you up.” 

 

He nodded gravely, not bothering with a verbal response. He'd never tell Possibly Clint, but he kind of didn't want to be sent 'on his way'. That little shard wanted to hold onto that ray of hope Sam had shown him. Right now he was terrified out of his wits and was definitely planning on being sick the moment he saw a toilet, but a few fragments of the night stuck in his brain like leftover sugar grains, painting sweet and warm images. A warm bed. Food, clothes that didn't smell like cigarette smoke from the previous owner who'd donated them to the charity shop he’d gotten them from, maybe being able to smell like soap and God, having a name. Looking at someone and knowing who they were, knowing who he was. At first he pushed the thoughts away, but if he ignored all the scary things it wrenched his gut how badly he wanted it. 'Somebody out there cares about you,' was what Sam and Possibly Clint had said. It might be nice. He couldn't remember what caring felt like. 

 

He was a little bit equally terrified of the possible outcomes. If he was James, he had to go back to an old life and he'd have to hurt the few people who knew him, because he wouldn't even fucking recognize them. 

If not...then he really would be a worthless bum. He'd never cared about that before now, he'd been too focused on surviving. But for a brief moment he'd seen a possible future, and it had been nice. If he were tossed back into the street, he'd never be able to obtain that future himself. He'd been able to look someone in the eyes, he'd talked to someone and actually gotten comfort. It was just a little bit crushing to know that this was his one and only shot for those good feelings to carry on.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Yes, I know what he went through as a POW isn't totally clear. Bucky only remembers in flashes and can't really explain it. 
> 
> The war he fought in is fake. He served as a POW in Russia both bc it's plausible for America to have been fighting w Russia, and bc I wanted angst about the cold. 
> 
> YES, I know military ID numbers aren't a thing now, but this is an AU and they still have them bc i like the reference to canon. If u don't like it write ur own fic. And link me bc it'll probs be so much better than this one and I'll wanna read.


	4. Maybe

He was smart enough to do his best not to struggle as they wheeled him indoors. He tried to focus on the warm air and not the smell of cleaning and medical supplies, or the metal around his wrist, or the scrubs and white coats. Even then, his stomach was still violently churning, so he curled up as small as he could towards the corner of the gurney, his hand twisted in his hair hard enough to tug. It was a little bit grounding. He hadn't had hair the first time. He didn't even remember until now with the contrast to remind him, but in the first hospital they'd shaved his head. Didn't like the smell of it burning, and it was easier to shock someone's head when they were bald.

Sam was waiting for them in the waiting room. Possibly Clint seemed resigned to waiting, as he just wheeled the gurney inside and headed to the front desk, presumably to let the clerk know that he had the most fucked up man in the universe handcuffed to his gurney. 

Sharon marched in about twenty seconds later. He’d noticed her determined attitude earlier, but it really came out when they all heard what the clerk said to the other EMT. 

“Sorry, Clint, all the doctors are tied up. Officer Wilson tried to get someone when he came, but you know how understaffed we are. He’ll be okay, you’ve already got him on a saline drip. Grab a blanket, poor thing has to have hypothermia in this weather-”

He stopped listening in favor of watching Sharon turn on her heel and stalk through the double doors that must lead to where the doctors were. Doctors and bright lights, and steel tables that frosted over at night and bit into his flesh. Another wave of nausea went through him, and he tugged harder at his hair to try and distract himself. He wasn’t there any more. He was in America. They were going to release him, except they weren’t and they were going to strap him down and send more shockwaves through him, and laugh at his screams until his throat was too raw to make them any more. 

His mind was escaping from him again, and he felt like grabbing a fish out of ice water would be easier than trying to hold all his pieces together. He dully registered something being set over him- blinking seemed to clear away some of the fog, and he could see a shiny silver sheet being tucked around his body by Confirmed Clint. A thermal blanket. Was he cold? He flexed his hand, but wasn’t sure if it was numbness or his drifting mind that made him unable to really feel his fingers. The feeling of the handcuff on his wrist was upsetting enough to abort his little experiment before he could make up his mind. He wasn’t shivering, but it had been snowing outside. He should be cold. 

He should be a lot of things, but right now he’d settle for just being able to hold onto his mind and not blank out.  
\----------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------

Sharon walked out with an embarrassed-looking doctor on her heel, and Clint lit up. Everyone owed her a dozen favors, it was no wonder she’d been able to twist enough arms to get someone from their pathetic excuse for graveyard shift staff to come help James. Clint had draped a blanket over him- James wasn’t shivering, which suggested that he had at least moderate if not severe hypothermia. He’d gotten a fair bit of his lucidity back during the drive over here, so Clint would put his money on moderate. Please, God, he thought, give this poor bastard half a break. 

"My buddy’s on his way, you can head out and I'll keep an eye on him. I am hoping on getting my cuffs back eventually." Sam offered with a weary smile. Clint noticed that someone, probably a nurse, had patched up his arm so Sam at least wasn’t bleeding all over everything.

Clint sort of wanted to stay- James had gotten off on the wrong foot with Sam, and he’d really like to stick around and make sure the dude was alright. But he had a doctor now, and someone was coming down to identify him. And Clint had his own job to get back to, more people to try and help. 

"Alright, just keep me updated, mkay? This guy right here's pretty good company once you get used to him."

He turned back to James, bending his knees to be closer to his level since James was still curled up on the gurney. 

"If you get freaked out again, just try and remember the breathing thing I taught you. In for five, out for five. You’ll be okay, promise. And if things don't turn out great, you have Sam call me. I'll get something setup for you, alright big guy?"

Clint had a sort of bad habit for taking in strays.  
\----------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------

‘Big Guy’ wasn’t too bad a name. 

It wasn't as final as James or Bucky, it wasn't as cold as Soldier or собака (which he knew meant dog, but not why or how he knew that, or even what language it was in because it wasn't English). Clint's name was familiar without stamping a label on him, it was warm without expecting an identity to deserve the fondness. Clint's friendliness was enough to get him to at least look up from his hermit-crab pose. And while Sam Wilson was a miracle worker for finding him, Clint Barton was fucking God because the corner of his mouth twitched upwards. 

He saw Clint grin back, and then the doctor was wheeling him through the doors, down a hallway and into some small room with beige walls, a bed, and a terrifying assortment of computer screens and wires. He felt like he was going to pass out with terror when he was transferred to the regular hospital bed (handcuffed to it again, courtesy of Officer fucking Wilson) and then hooked up to about six different monitors. He stifled his ragged breathing, but could see the lines jumping on one of the smaller computers. Two more IV’s were attached and he thought he could cry in anticipation of the pain, but none came.

He started feeling more relaxed, and realized that the doctor had been speaking for a long time now. They must be medicating him to take the edge off his panic. He should feel afraid of that, and wonder if they had other medication that was going to have a much less appreciated effect, but mostly he just felt numb. 

The doctor said something else in a fuzzy voice and left, leaving him alone with Sam, who he wasn't half as trusting of, but he was too damn exhausted to keep up the ferocious glare he'd given off in the alley. The heat was starting to set in, and his body was finally allowing itself to shiver both with anxiety and the belief that it could finally shake off the relentless cold. It had never occurred to him to ask for a blanket. He found himself missing his left arm, so he could at least pull this one more tightly around himself. In the sterility of the hospital room, he almost felt self conscious. He wasn’t diseased or anything- he had a little drawstring backpack with some soap and toothpaste and a comb, he kept as clean as he could by either using showers at shelters or making do with catbaths from sinks. His clothes were the worst part, really- his jeans were ripped in a few places, his shoes were almost worn through, and his flannel shirt and navy overcoat now both had a blood soaked hole on the side. He’d been wearing something similar when he lost the arm. Everything except the shoes had been too blood soaked to keep, so this had all come from the Salvation Army. At first he’d picked it out in the hopes somebody might recognize him, and then he’d just been too poor to afford new things.

Right. Somebody recognizing him. The whole reason he was in this mess, curled in a ball in a hospital bed, with his arm covering his head like he was expecting to be hit and a cop glancing at him every few seconds like he didn’t even know what he wanted to ask. But that brought to mind something the cop had mentioned to Clint earlier. 

“Who’s on his way?” 

He didn’t uncurl from his ball, letting the sentence drift out while his face remained hidden. He could see Sam from here, and he didn’t feel the need to get out of the position that both preserved body heat and protected most of his vital organs. And just think, if he’d stayed in this position instead of being a goddamn good Samaritan, he wouldn’t have gotten himself into this mess. 

"Steve. He'd probably run all the way down here if it wouldn't kill him. Might try it anyways if the cab takes too long to get here." 

He wasn't sure if he was more desperate or terrified to meet Steve. 

He couldn't be the one to look his one connection to being a real person in the eye and say, 'sorry, no clue who you are or who I am or anything to do with my life, nice to meet you!' What if he wasn't even the right person? He honestly wished they'd thumbprint him, test his blood, yank a damn tooth out, anything. He didn't want to hurt anyone who'd been missing James, and a small, stifled part of him cried out that he didn't want to get his hopes up just to be kicked to the curb for not having the right face or all of his parts.

"Who's Steve?" 

Sam kept saying the name like it was as obvious as the name Bucky and James. Like he'd know Steve anywhere and even knowing he was coming was supposed to comfort him. Steve was also the only name Sam had mentioned. He was probably family, then, a brother or father. Steve would be glad to see him, right? Or he'd be furious that he'd been missing for so long. He'd be disgusted at the dirt and unkempt hair and the arm that had been there the last time they'd seen each other. Or he'd take a look and scoff at the idea that this castoff could possibly be James. He'd be laughed at and thrown back into the streets, a ghost again but now with the memory of living to haunt him. 

"I don't remember him." God, just in case, he needed Steve to know that before they met. He couldn't meet his one possible link to being a person and break his heart as his formal greeting. "He knows that, right? I don't remember anything, please tell him that. I can't tell him that, please don't-"

His breath had sped up again, so he paused to fight it. He was down to three in, three out and decided that was good enough. 

"Please don't make me tell him that I can't remember anything." Three in and three out still wasn't enough oxygen. He let his breathing pick up, wishing that Clint were here to tell him if that was what he was meant to do. He was feeling panicked, and he was supposed to do five counts for that. But you had to breathe more when you were out of breath, to make up for the oxygen loss, right? He wasn't sure which problem he was supposed to address here. His chest was still aching, and breathing was very hard. He let himself ignore his counts, taking short shallow breaths through his nose that kept getting faster. If Sam made him be the one to tell Steve he couldn't remember anything, he had no idea what the hell he'd do.

"Hey, hey, easy now.” Sam was at his side, his hands up like he wanted to touch him and comfort him but knew better. "I'll tell him for you, you don't have to say anything you don't want to. I'll let him know for you, alright?" 

There was a soft knock at the door- he looked up from behind his arm to see the doctor motioning for Sam to leave. Sam sighed, shaking his head as he turned. 

“Just breathe, okay man? All you gotta do is breathe and I promise things will be alright.”  
\----------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------

 

God, Sam really hoped it was him.

He was sure, this had to be the Bucky Barnes that had gone missing all those years ago. He couldn't confirm it though, no matter how bad he wished they could just wait around for some solid proof instead of dragging Steve out of bed in the middle of the night for someone who might not even be the right guy. Sam had only seen him in pictures, after all, and it'd been two whole years and Bucky had had two arms in all the photos he’d seen. 

He almost wished anyone else could call him and break the news. 

Steve wouldn't want to hear it from anyone else though, so he called. Steve sounded sleepy and grumpy- obviously he’d been sleeping, it was approaching three in the morning. He was groggy enough that he hadn’t even registered what the subject matter was almost definitely going to be if Officer Sam Wilson was calling him at this hour, and Sam so desperately did not want to have to wake up his best friend just to break his heart. He’d seen too many of Steve’s sleepless and tearstained nights already, and that was knowing that Steve hid the vast majority of them. 

“I...I think I found him, Steve. Alive. You can’t talk to him right now, and I’m not completely sure, just...get down to Grey’s.” 

That was all it took. Two years of nothing and Steve was still jumping out of bed and running to a hospital just on the chance that it was him. Sam was going to offer to send a squad car, but Steve had hung up before he could get the words out. Knowing Steve, he probably wouldn’t have been able to wait for somebody to come pick him up anyways. He’d be flying out the door and into the first cab that would take him. 

 

Sam really wished he didn’t have to be left alone with Bucky. He really really wished that Bucky hadn’t asked that specific, poisonous question- ‘Who’s Steve?’. He kept insisting that he wasn't James and that he didn't know Steve, so no matter how sure Sam was he still couldn't help that tiny twinge of doubt that maybe he was wrong and he had just set back two whole years of getting up and getting over it for Steve. Steve didn't deserve that, he shouldn't have to go through the pain of losing the guy he loved all over again. But there was still a much higher chance that he was right, and that was enough to keep Sam's resolve solid. 

"Steve, he'd probably run all the way down here if it wouldn't kill him. Might try it anyways if the cab takes too long to get to him."

He almost wished he was joking. Steve Rogers gave literally everything 110%, no matter how insignificant it seemed. The only trouble was that his body like to give him about 60% on a good day, and Steve seemed to forget that. There was a reason Sam had started carrying Steve's spare inhaler around, after all. Steve had confessed once that it was something Bucky used to do. He'd said that Sam and Bucky probably would have gotten along great, for all the worrying they both did over him.

He hadn't said that Bucky was the type to run around stabbing people as a greeting.

It was kind of heartbreaking to see how panicked Bucky got. Sam didn’t appreciate being slashed across the forearm, but the longer he watched Bucky the clearer it became that his actions had been fueled by fear, not malice. He didn't like Bucky, but he knew that was mostly because of their shaky first meeting and he didn't actually want to see the guy suffering because he'd done something stupid in a fit of panic. He soothed him when Bucky started breaking down at the notion of having to explain to Steve that he couldn’t remember him- honestly, Sam felt the same way. Steve loved Bucky about as much as anybody loved anything, and Sam also felt sick to his stomach at the idea of having to tell him that his adored boyfriend no longer knew him from Adam. But Steve needed to hear it from someone close to him. And at least Sam didn’t have to tell him that Bucky had just gotten up and left him without a word. At least he didn’t have to tell him, officially, that Bucky was dead. 

Not yet. 

He gave one last weary look at Bucky when the doctor motioned for him to step out in the hallway before obeying. He didn't know what he was meant to expect, but the sight of Steve was still enough to make him pause for a second. It looked like he'd thrown on the first pair of clothes that his hands touched, his short blond hair was still a little fluffed up from sleep and he'd forgone his contacts entirely for an old pair of glasses. He also looked like he was holding a hundred emotions back at once, hopeful without wanted to hope, terrified without wanting to show fear; it might be Bucky which meant that it might not be Bucky and Steve was too busy prepping himself for the blow of the second one that he wouldn't even let himself consider the first. 

“Steve. Listen, buddy. Whoever’s in there... even if it’s your guy, he’s different now. He’s missing his left arm, first of all, haven’t found out how yet. And... Steve, he doesn’t remember anything. Not his address, not his name or his mom, not...not you. I need you to be prepared for that if you’re going to see him.”  
\----------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------

Steve had spent a lot of time in his life grieving for Bucky. 

He’d spent years fretting over whether Bucky was okay when he was overseas. He’d clung to every letter, reread every email, smiled at every photograph and doodled the same images in the corners of the grocery lists. 

The three months when Bucky didn’t contact him once had been, what he once thought, the most terrifying of his life. 

Even when the letter finally came and the letters ‘MIA’ seemed to define Steve’s life, at least he had a definition. He had something to tell people when they asked why he was so sick and tired-looking and on edge. He had a word, a status update, some barely-there idea of where Bucky was, and the crushing question of how long he was going to be able to hold onto that ‘M’. 

Another three months passed that way before the government gave up, and declared Sergeant James Buchanan Barnes Killed In Action. It defined Steve in a different way than the first initialism had. The first one had defined what was already happening- the nausea and the worry and the wondering were all already there, and ‘MIA’ just gave him something to say to the people who told him to ‘think positive’ and that ‘no news is good news’ because his boyfriend hadn’t contacted him from a war zone in weeks. 

‘KIA’ became his life, and his actions defined it. He couldn’t read the label on his medications, not even on a fucking soup can, without the words from the condolence letter appearing in front of him. Every breath he took felt like those three letters were jammed inside his lungs, cutting off his air, suffocating him from the inside because Bucky Barnes, the most wonderful man he’d ever met, his best friend, had been declared Killed In Action. 

And then Bucky came home. 

Steve didn’t care that he was different. He didn’t care that Bucky didn’t have his hair, that his cheekbones and ribs jutted out, that he flinched at nothing and that he didn’t go a week without having a nightmare. 

Well, he did care. One of these days he was going to personally see to it that every one of the people who’d hurt Bucky was crushed into the ground. But for those few months that Bucky had come home, Steve couldn’t care less that Bucky wasn’t quite the same. He was still his Bucky. He still curled into Steve when they slept, still kissed his forehead and made pancakes on Sundays and groused when Steve didn’t wear a scarf. He was Bucky- a bit worse for the wear, but growing brighter every day, and Steve had never loved him more. 

He supposed he should have seen it coming. Losing him again. He’d seen Bucky grow depressed, seen the nightmares increase in frequency and intensity. He’d felt that looming something, the disaster he’d tried to ignore while he and Bucky did the same they always did, tried to hold on for just one more winter. 

The seizure, nearly dying and losing most of his hearing hadn’t exactly cured him of his grief, but it did extinguish that desperate hope. He’d crumbled, hit rock bottom. Sam had been there for him, with soup and tissues and tv show recommendations that he knew Bucky and Steve had never watched together. Over the last two years Steve had redefined desperation and searching, because the second time he’d been able to do something about the metaphorical ‘missing in action’. He also learned how to change the m to a k, or at least close the file. How to pack up Bucky’s things so he’d stop crying when he wore one of the too-large sweatshirts or smelled his aftershave, how to convince Wellie that they would be just fine without the man who’d saved them both from a world where nobody seemed to care about the little thing being trodden on and forgotten about. 

All of that was gone when Sam called him. 

On the cab ride over, Steve tried to convince himself it wasn’t true. It was just a lookalike- someone with Bucky’s jaw, or his nose, or his eyes- oh god, please not his eyes, he didn’t think he’d be able to handle that. Someone with a similar feature, but lacking that brilliant spark he’d once been lucky enough to call his own.  
Steve was going to smile and apologize for the trouble and wish the stranger well, then he would go home and learn to be okay with it all over again.

The doctor wouldn’t tell him much. He insisted he didn’t actually know anything, except that whoever the cop had brought in was dehydrated, likely malnourished, hypothermic, in shock, and needed about 8,000 tests. Steve cringed- normally it was him with foot longs lists of treatments and medications, hazy with fever or meds. Normally Bucky held his hand, or sat with one leg on Steve’s bed and rested his chin on top of Steve’s head, and made sure he perfectly understood everything so that they wouldn’t miss any danger signs and he could help get Steve better as quickly as possible. Except for the week when he’d first come home and only blood relatives could visit him, this was Bucky’s first time since birth in the hospital without Steve. He felt the same itching in his bones that he had nearly three years ago, the ache to be with Bucky, holding his hand and promising that everything was alright now, Steve was going to step up and be the responsible one, and Bucky just had to be home and be safe. 

Last time he’d said that, Bucky had cried. They’d kissed. Did Bucky even want to hear that any more? 

 

Sam didn’t look too happy when he came out of the hospital room. Steve felt his entire chest freeze, like he was the one Sam had found out in the cold instead of who may or may not be the love of his life. 

The feeling didn’t really change much when Sam gave the explanation for his expression. 

He took it all in, nodding slowly. It might be Bucky, but even if it was it wouldn’t be his Bucky. He remembered when Buck had first come home- how worried he’d been that Steve might not think he was the same man any more, how Steve had kissed him to shut him up and told him that all he needed for Bucky to be his was for Bucky to want to be. 

Bucky no longer wanted to be. 

Sam tried to put a positive spin on it- they didn’t know everything yet, if it was Bucky then it may be temporary, there may be some sort of treatment or medication or therapy that would have him remembering again. They still had doctors and scientists and specialists to talk to, but before they could do any of that they had to find out if it was really him. 

He steeled himself; one deep breath, and then he was opening the door to find out what way the love of his life had been taken away from him for the umpteenth time. 

And then he wasn't in control of his legs anymore- they just kept moving forward on their own. He couldn’t stop his mouth from moving either, someone else was pulling the strings and all those strings were concerned about was getting out one single sentence, one single word. 

"Bucky...?"

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Trust me, I want them to reunite too. But I already neglected so much homework to write these 4 chapters. You guys convince my state that I don't need 4 math credits and I'll write faster.
> 
> Also I'm trying to name chapters after Next to Normal songs bc why not. Not every chapter will be themed, but it'll probably be a trend.


	5. How Could I Ever Forget?

The man in front of Steve looked absolutely nothing like his Bucky.

Bucky never liked to have more than a bit of scruff, he kept his hair much shorter, he was well dressed and suave and charming. Steve wouldn’t say he was vain, but Bucky did take pride in his appearance and had always liked his possessions, his living space and his clothes to be kept neat and orderly. He wasn’t prissy, he’d gotten blood and dirt on his clothes a thousand times before when dragging Steve out of fights and he’d just learned better ways to get out stains. The Bucky he’d known for twenty-three years would’ve hated looking like the man in the hospital bed, though. He would have hated the slightly greasy and tangled hair hanging a little past his shoulders, hated the beard, hated the shredded jeans and worn-through shoes. He would’ve already been trying to sew up the bloody hole in the flannel shirt that now hung open over his otherwise bare torso, never rebuttoned after the paramedics must have undone it to put in what looked like very recent stitches. His Bucky would’ve been insisting someone threw his clothes in some cold saltwater before the blood set in. He would have worn every stitch of clothing, every hair on his body differently than the man sitting in front of him.

His Bucky had had two arms. Steve couldn’t imagine how somebody could survive an amputation without going to a hospital, without being identified and their emergency contact, him, informed of what had happened.

His Bucky had been bigger. The height was the same, but this man looked almost as bad as when Bucky had first come home from that hell over in Russia. Steve had only been able to see him after he’d had a few weeks of hospital treatments, after he’d gained a bit of weight and his eyes had cleared and he could answer questions about where he was correctly about ninety percent of the time. This man’s cheekbones didn’t jut out like Bucky’s had, but his muscle definition was much smaller. The only similarity was that they both curled themselves into the same-sized impossibly small ball on the bed.

Most importantly, his Bucky also had always remembered him. Bucky had always been more willing to show pain than Steve, but when Steve did let on that he was hurting or upset Bucky had never wasted a second in trying to comfort him. Bucky was such a physical person, the second Steve looked sad or grimaced Bucky was immediately throwing his arm over his shoulders and pulling Steve into his side, or bumping his nose against Steve’s head and muttering to him that they’d work everything out- the medications, the bills, the war nightmares. Bucky was solid and steady and always the first to reach out, and this man just... stared at him like there was a thick pane of glass separating them when really all there was was Steve’s determination on whether or not the shaking and grimy person in front of him held any resemblance to James Buchanan Barnes.  
\----------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------

  
He wasn't sure exactly who he'd been expecting to be standing beside Sam when the door opened again. Maybe an old man, a father, stooped with age and sadness. Maybe a man who looked kind of like him, a brother who would immediately prove or disprove that he really was James. Maybe some dude with curly hair or wearing a jersey, the best friend who would be able to recognize the living ghost or the imposter. All he knew was that he was expecting Steve- he knew jack shit about their relationship, Steve's personality, even what he looked like.

He couldn't deny, he felt a little shocked when he turned and saw what kind of man Sam brought into the drab, suffocating hospital room.

Steve was...kind of a little fluff ball.

He'd been expecting a beer gut, or a bowed back, or a posture that should've been left in junior year of college, but Steve was just...he looked so soft. He had blond hair that he obviously hadn't combed, because some of the fluffier bits stuck out in wild tufts like a perturbed dandelion. His sweater looked baggy but warm, and like it'd just been hastily shoved on and forgotten about because it wasn't sitting quite right. Thick black-rimmed glasses were slipping down his nose, not hiding the bags or the just slightly sunken cheeks or the fear and hope and shock all playing across clear blue irises. He could pick out the emotions in a second, because he'd spent the last hour or so feeling all the exact same things.

He didn't even mind when Steve came closer to him, hovering about a yard away. Even in this state he could fight against someone that little if he had to, the distance wasn’t threatening. He just didn't want to move his eyes away from Steve's face, desperately searching for anything even a little familiar. He wasn't finding anything. Sure, Steve looked so nonthreatening it was almost comforting, but beyond that there was nothing to quiet the war waging on beneath every inch of his skin.

And then Steve said ‘Bucky’.

He'd spent the last hour denying it, but then Steve said it like it was the most important word in the dictionary, and he was pretty sure that the hope was a little bit stronger than the fear in Steve's eyes now, which meant that something about Bucky was there. Something about Bucky had to be there, because Steve wasn’t looking at him like he wasn’t a ghost- he was looking at him like he absolutely was a ghost, but Steve was going to do whatever it took to bring him back.

He couldn’t walk away from this. The terror and denial were ebbing away like the numbness finally retreating from the very tips of his fingers and toes, and like the warmth, being Bucky hurt but he was drawn to it, craved it. Like warmth, being Bucky, being Steve’s in whatever way they may be connected suddenly seemed like it was absolutely necessary for his survival.

He didn't know if Steve was right. He wanted him to be. He wanted him to say that name, his name, say anything again because at least his voice sounded like something he'd heard before. Something he could pick out of a crowd, something he could predict and identify and goddammit, still couldn't remember.

How the hell was he meant to respond? Several remarks ran through his head. Maybe a witty 'you tell me, pal', or a harsh repeat of 'who the hell is Bucky?' to remind himself that he probably wasn't worth all this and certainly wasn't gonna be lucky enough for that soft little guy to be his.

"I... I don’t know."

It seemed as honest as he could get. He needed Steve to tell him. Smile, or more likely scoff, or shake his head and say no, not Bucky. He could almost imagine Steve smiling. In his head, Steve’s smile was bright enough to rival the sun, warm enough to chase away every snowflake that had ever dared touch him in the two New York winters he’d spent without ever thinking he might have someone with messy blond hair and glasses that needed fixing who might be looking for him.

He swallowed the lump in his throat, trying to banish those thoughts. He wasn’t going to be that lucky, Steve wasn’t going to be his. He was just some bum off the street with more psychiatric problems than he had fingers, and that was probably including the ones he’d had before the accident that marked the start of his memories. He forced himself to brace for Steve to decline. For the doctor to throw him back on the street because ghosts didn’t belong in hospital beds, they belonged to the streets they haunted or they belonged in the grave. For the cop to chain him to something else, for some other drug or machine to be hooked up to him to make him scream, make him tug at the metal cuffs on both hands until his wrists were worn raw.

All of those scenarios had played across his mind more often, made more sense than Steve, than anybody saying he was theirs. He was somebody’s. Anybody’s. He was a bum, a ghost, a prisoner. Not Steve’s, he almost said aloud to himself, not Steve’s not Steve’s not-

Steve had his hand pressed to his mouth, the way only people experienced at grieving knew was one of the best ways to force everything from tears to vomit to love confessions to the very emotions ripping apart your insides, back to that place between stomach and chest where they’d burn and stew before simmering down to a dull ache until something else decided to stir them up again. It could mean anything. It could mean Steve was weeping in relief at the retrieval of his lost friend or family, or once again experiencing the pain of losing him.

He sat up despite the fact he was shaking like a leaf, feeling the desperation in his eyes as he stared at Steve. With Sam he'd been reminded of a cornered wildcat, but now all he could think of was some mutt at a shelter looking up at you with big helpless eyes and just begging you to be the first person to not go away.  
\----------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------

 

The man three feet away, staring transfixedly at him from a hospital bed, held almost no resemblance to the love of his life. Hell, even Sam seemed more like Bucky right now, with his steady temper and calmness and his ability to shut up and keep out of the way, something Steve had never mastered. No, the ghost before him seemed about as far away from the memory as a person could be.

 

Steve knew him before the name was even out of his mouth, and he’d never been so hopelessly or desperately in love with him.

  
Steve had to cover his ragged gasp when Bucky answered, the voice frail and scared and raspy and still more beautiful than even the memories Steve had of it when it was boisterous and laughing and telling him how much Bucky loved him. Even with the warmth of the hospital air it still burnt his lungs like a breath of too cold winter air, but it was good. He’d been frozen for so long, he was ready to let in the brilliant, too bright, burning sunshine.

He didn’t know, Bucky didn’t know but Steve did. Absolutely and entirely and without a second of uncertainty, even through the dirt and the grime and the missing arm and everything else, Steve knew Bucky's eyes and his face and his voice. Steve knew Bucky.

"Oh my god, Bucky." He breathed out, the words feeling like they were taking a thousand pounds of weight off of his shoulders, a thousand pounds he hadn't even realized he was carrying before right this moment. Bucky was here, he'd been gone and now he was here and they were- everything was- Bucky was- okay. It'd been two years and it didn't even matter, Bucky didn't remember him and it didn't even matter because he was here and okay and he was _alive_ which was so much more than he'd dared to hope for even in the cab ride to the hospital.

“Bucky-”

He needed something else to say, anything other than the name he'd told himself he'd never think about again.

Steve moved closer, reaching out with his trembling artists fingers that Bucky had once adored, and touched Bucky's cuffed hand. Something to fix later, something he could _ask_ about later when there was something in the universe that mattered other than Bucky in front of him, here and okay and _alive_. There were other little things to ask about too, a tiny list forming in Steve's head that would undoubtedly be a million questions long by the time he got around to asking about them. Still, those were all things that didn't matter right now because his smile was wide enough to leave his jaw aching and while Steven Grant Rogers was _not_ a crier and never had been, he felt like he was getting very close to that point.

Bucky was missing an arm. He was dirty and he had a beard and his bones looked like they were threatening to poke right out of his skin but it didn't _matter_ , Steve didn't _care_ because Bucky came _back_. He was here right here, right now and that was all that mattered in this very moment. Maybe a minute later it'd be hard again, maybe someone would say something and it would all turn out to be a dream or a trick and Steve would have to learn to be okay with that but right now he could just- he could just squeeze Bucky's hand as hard as possible and be happy that his best friend was finally okay.

 

"Hi, Buck," He finally managed, after what felt like an eternity, "do you know me?"  
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Bucky hadn't cried since he'd lost the arm. Occasionally a tear or two would fall when he got especially scared, but he didn't really count that as crying because it was just a physical stress response. But now he could feel tears, burning his freezing skin and blurring his vision. He tried to not let them fall, but if they did it may not even matter that much

Steve kept saying his name, over and over. He was Bucky, he had to be. It didn't even seem like a bad thing any more. Not when Steve was smiling like he was the goddamn sunshine, repeating his name like he hadn't been allowed to say it for a long time and now that this broken shell of a man was sitting in front of him, he could finally let it all tumble out of his lips. He was Bucky. He could almost hear Steve's voice calling him that in a hundred different ways. Yelling it in frustration, huffing it after a bad joke, whispering it gently on hot, dark nights and desperately on cold, darker nights. This was possibly the first, or at least the strongest, good 'memory' in his little mental box of half-remembered sensations. Most only appeared when repeated, hence why he could remember a hospital and cold and pain and restraints.

And now he could remember Steve's voice.

Steve's hands were actually probably cold, but Bucky's fingers felt like ice and Steve's felt like a warm spring day. There was just something about him that didn't seem wrong or scary, it tugged at him the same ways as the hospital and the pain and the handcuff. But while those sucked the air from his lungs and tormented him, looking at Steve and feeling his ice cold hand gripped in between delicate long fingers made Bucky feel like he was actually getting enough oxygen. He couldn't help but grip Steve's hand back. He hoped he wasn't still bleeding because it was probably rude to get blood on your... Steve, but he also didn't care because he needed Steve to _stay_ , to keep forcing life into him with his repetitions of 'Bucky' and the recognition in his eyes and the smile on his face.

"I-"

Did he know Steve? By all standards, no, he was still trying to memorize what he looked like, still wondering what Steve's middle and last names were, still had no idea if Steve had family, if he was Steve's family, still didn’t know what they were to each other.

But he _knew_ Steve.

He knew his voice and exactly which inflections his words would have, he knew Steve's fingers fit some sort of stereotype (was he an artist? Pianist?). He knew that Steve wouldn't ever be able to look at the wrong guy and call him Bucky, which meant he was Bucky, and he knew Steve cared about Bucky more than he'd realized you could care about a person before now.

"You're Steve."

That was a lot to try and put into words. He didn't want to get Steve's hopes up, but he needed to let him know because he needed him to stay, and he needed to be able to make Steve at least a tiny bit happy.

How did he put into words what Steve was to him? He couldn’t define it, didn’t know enough about him to explain this feeling with the title of brother or cousin or best friend. There was no sudden rush of memories, no immediate understanding of who this small soft boy in front of him was or how much they’d once meant to each other. He was Steve. But didn’t that say it all? Even without the memories, Steve still shone like a beacon. He  
was still Steve, still the one thing Bucky had. He was still _everything_.

Steve pushed a strand of his hair away from his face, since Bucky had only one arm to do it with and it was currently chained to the bed and gripping Steve like he might tumble a thousand feet into nothingness if either of them let go. It awakened something, the same way the gurney two years ago had and now the handcuff, the same way his name and Steve’s voice brought back memories he didn’t know he had.

"You... you used to do that. Push my hair back. When something was wrong, I think." Maybe other times, too. But he could practically feel the long fingers gently threading through shorter strands, reminding him he wasn't back in the old hospital because he hadn't had hair there, and if Steve could run his hands through his hair then it meant he was safe. It had once been a sensation as familiar as blinking, and its return felt as natural and relieving as putting on a piece of jewelry always worn that had been lost for two days, not two years.  
  
There was more. It was so foggy and hard to grasp- every time he tried to focus on the whispers in his mind they shrank back, like the shadows in the dark that ran when a light was shone their way and then grew longer and darker and more mysterious the moment you turned your eyes back to safety. Bucky was desperate for something, anything. Anything to make Steve think there was still hope for him. Anything to make Steve stay.

One suddenly stuck- Steve, scarcely visible under swirling colors of many different colored blankets. Bucky sitting on the bed, one hand pressed to Steve’s forehead and the other exchanging a bowl of soup with him. Yes, the exchange had once been well known, he could feel it. Back before soup tasted like watered down, government subsidized shit, back when a kitchen meant more than an unguarded trash bin he could raid without getting yelled at by pedestrians, business owners or cops.

"Your favorite soup is-"

No, no, no, it had been on the tip of his tongue. He could smell the different kinds, hear raspy iterations of 'Thanks, Buck', but he couldn't see Steve's goddamn face and couldn't remember which soup he’d made for him the most or which got the best reaction. Steve was going to give up because none of this was good enough and he wasn’t worth the trouble when he couldn’t even remember which soup was Steve’s favorite, when he’d spent years making it for him that were all gone now.

But Steve’s eyes were nothing but patient, hopeful. Bucky knew better than to trust the little golden bubble he felt in his belly every time he looked at Steve, but it was yelling at him that Steve would be grateful for any tiny little thing he could offer. That Steve was different from everything he’d learned about the world in the past two years. He may be a lot taller than Steve, but Bucky knew what it was like to be the little guy. Steve knew the value of compassion. Steve honestly looked like Bucky’s two year absence had gutted him, and even these meaningless snippets were piecing him back together.

He tried again.

"I made you soup a lot?"

He felt horrifically guilty, that these were the only measly memories he could offer. But Steve just laughed, although it stuck in his throat with the tears he was choking back. For the first time in his memories, Bucky finally felt like he was good enough.

“Yeah, yeah you did, Buck.” Steve kept a grip on his hand, but the fingers that had been idly combing out Bucky’s hair now came to rest on his cheek. He didn’t even realize that the tears had spilled over until Steve swiped his thumb over his cheekbone and Bucky could feel the cool air against the track it left. He found it incredibly fitting that Steve and his tears were able to cut through all the cold and the dirt, finally revealing the man that lay underneath.  
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Steve was laughing.

It wasn’t like he hadn’t laughed since Bucky had left. Hell, it wasn’t even like he hadn’t laughed and meant it since Bucky left. He’d been happy since then, he’d smiled and laughed and played jokes and been the little shit Bucky always pretended to hate. He just hadn’t had anything even close to this brief catharsis, laughing around tears and feeling all the hurt and hope in one breath.

He reached out, one hand still on Bucky's, still holding on for dear life like there could possibly be anything in the world that would tear him away from his side again. He brushed the pad of his thumb against Bucky's cheek, smudging away some of the dirt on his skin and revealing just a little bit of the man underneath. He knew this face, even underneath all that dirt and hardship he knew this face. He'd seen him smiling and laughing, angry and scared; he'd seen Bucky through every lens and angle and he knew, right now, that he was seeing Bucky all over again. He'd spent two years, _two years_ , telling himself that he would never have this again, never be able to see or hear or touch him again, he'd spent two years teaching himself to be okay with that.

But God, right now he'd never been so happy to have spent such a long time being wrong. He laughed again, a few tears spilling out in the process. Crying in public, he'd be kicking himself for something like that if it were for any other reason, if it was anyone other than Bucky, Buck, Bucky sitting in that hospital bed and holding his hand like it was a lifeline in a storm. But how could he do anything but laugh or cry when it was Bucky's cold hand gripping his own and Bucky's chilled skin under his fingers? Bucky didn't look like he minded and Sam might as well have been a thousand miles away for how much Steve noticed him. No, it wasn’t that Steve hadn’t felt sadness or pain or humor or joy over the past two years, it was just that he hadn’t felt anything this _much_. He was smiling and crying and grabbing at Bucky's hand, but it didn't matter because Buck remembered making soup on sick days and fingers in his hair. It was more than Steve had ever believed he would get back. It was more than enough.

"Are- Are you okay? Is there anything I can- Oh God, Buck- you don't even know how good it is to see you." Steve kept stroking his thumb over Bucky’s ice cold cheek, addicted to the sensation and wiping away the dirt and tears from Bucky’s skin. He couldn't even think straight, let alone get full and complete sentences about anything. He needed to ask, though. He needed to get Bucky a blanket that didn’t look like it had come from space aliens or hospital staff, something knitted and colorful and well-loved through years of colds and flus and movie nights. He needed to get Bucky a hot meal, and he needed someone to get that fucking handcuff off of him before Steve had a few choice words with every single officer on the force.  
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Bucky felt his left shoulder twitch when he saw Steve crying, a futile attempt to reach out with a phantom limb to wipe his tears away, to fix it. He had a feeling that neither of them cried often, but when they did it was often together.

In another time, he'd probably be bothered by what was going on. He was cold. He hadn't been inside in days and the cold was just a part of him now, but now that he was inside he was realizing just how fucking _cold_ New York got in February. He was shaking, still, and some of it was probably shivering but he was starting to suspect he'd gone into shock at some point. Somewhere in between being frozen, stabbed, tased, panicked, and brought back to life. Each individually was an excellent candidate, combined it was a small miracle he was so composed.

That composure was quickly leaking out of him. It was a classical case of the humiliating phenomenon in which pain takes a backseat until safety arrives, and then everything finally starts feeling like it’s falling apart. For the first time in two years, Bucky felt safe. He had an identity and a name and he had a Steve, he had a home. He’d never imagined the happiness that these things brought, but with them came the sudden release of two year’s worth of being a ghost.

He nodded at Steve's initial question by reflex, but before he was even done he had to squeeze his eyes shut to try and hold back the sudden new wave of tears that ripped through him. He didn't even know which of Steve's questions he was answering now. Both, probably. He was okay because Steve was here and he was Bucky, and fifteen minutes ago he wouldn't have known where to start if someone asked him if he wanted something but now he was a person and people needed warmth when they were shaking and food when you could count their ribs and they needed this damn cuff to come off. Bucky could feel his mind slipping away from him for the uncountable time that night, and he responded by tugging harder and harder at the cuff. It was the thing trying to steal him away, countering the warmth of Steve’s hand with those mysterious terrors of ice cold metal and uncaring experimenters and nobody wiping his tears away as he sobbed a hell of a lot harder than he was now. It hurt. It hurt his wrist, he was _cold_ and his body was twitching, he couldn't remember if it was from the cold or the aftershocks of the electric currents they liked to send through his head. Bucky pulled his knees up, tugging and tugging at the metal that bit into his wrist, one of these days he'd wear right through the bone and then he'd be free to go home so Steve wouldn’t have to worry about him and wouldn’t be on his own all the way home, an ocean and a million miles and a war away.

It was hard to breathe- he could hear the short gasps of his panicked breath. He just wanted out. Steve was right there, he needed Steve to help him but couldn't get the damn words out that he'd just been so _scared_ , so fucking terrified and miserable. He squeezed Steve's hand tighter, careful not to crush it even as he tried to convey wordlessly the terror that was crushing him, that he needed to be fixed and wanted to forget about this and just be a god damned normal person for five fucking minutes. Bucky couldn’t get the words out to Steve. His chest felt like it was collapsing in on itself, like his ribs were constricting and squeezing the air from his lungs. He could only gasp like he’d been raised by a family of well-meaning but ignorant goldfish who’d never figured out how humans should breathe. He felt lost, so lost, and blind. He felt like he was wandering in the dark and Steve was a candle, except Bucky must be missing a different limb than he thought because he just couldn’t keep up with the light. He was stumbling, was _falling_ , away from the light and away from Steve and back towards the ghost he was always destined to be.

 

 

“Bucky, Bucky, shhh. I know, Buck, I’m here. I’m here.”

Steve knew this all too well.

Bucky, for all his charm and cockiness, had always been...just a little off with people. He’d been ragingly popular with all ages and genders, and yet had chosen to mostly isolate himself in favor of hanging around Steve. It wasn’t that he didn’t like people, or get along with them. Bucky had just always been very selective about who he really connected with.

The panic attacks and anxiety hadn’t come until after the war. Oh, Bucky had always dealt with more nervousness than he ever let Steve openly know about, but that was nothing like the desperate gasps and tears and night terrors after he came home. Anxiety was miraculously one of the few things Steve _didn’t_ have wrong with him, and it had taken them both a while to understand what Bucky was experiencing and how to deal with it. It had taken pamphlets and doctors and therapists and mistakes, but pretty soon Steve had managed to understand just what was happening to his beloved when he started breathing like he had an invisible python trying to strangle him. It was actually a lot easier than he’d expected to help calm Bucky down. He just had to be calm and not ask questions about what horrors were flashing through Bucky’s mind, but instead about whether he wanted water or if he wanted Steve to stay or just call Wellie and then keep some distance. Wellie wasn’t here, and from the way Bucky was clutching Steve’s hand it was pretty clear he didn’t want him to go. Steve had gotten pretty good at being Bucky’s rock when he got like this, and now it'd been two whole years and yet comforting Bucky came just about as easy as breathing

Steve sat up on the edge of the bed, rubbing small circles into Bucky's skin and squeezing warmth back into his fingers. He cooed out soft sounds as he started running his fingers slowly through Bucky’s greasy and tangled hair. It was one of their most effective grounding techniques, and already he could hear Bucky’s breaths growing less high-pitched. No matter how much hard Steve had had to work to be a good teammate for panic attacks, he was always blown away by Bucky’s bravery. Every time he somehow managed to calm down, and every time it was like watching David defeat Goliath for Steve, who’d had more than his fair share of battles much too big for him.

“It’s okay. We’re okay. Everything is gonna be okay... Sam, take the cuff off.”

His voice grew harder halfway through the sentence. It wasn’t the first time he’d bossed Sam around. Hell, he’d flat out yelled at him when Sam had tried to follow normal procedures and give up on finding Bucky after a week. For years, Bucky had seemed invincible to Steve. He was tall and strong and good-looking, and whenever he got hurt while finishing Steve’s fights he hid it and just smiled around any gaps or bloody spots on his teeth. When Steve found out that his boyfriend was very very fragile and could be taken away from him with a single government letter, he’d grown a protective streak a mile long and hotter than the sun. Sam hadn’t known the foundation of it when he first got his ass handed to him by a guy he could easily rest his elbow on, but he certainly had grown accustomed to Steve’s devotion by this point.

“Sam. If you don’t take it off, I swear to god I’ll take the key from you by force.” Normally a threat from someone so small would have earned a laugh. The only trouble was, Steve probably wasn't above starting a fight in a hospital for Bucky- scratch that, he definitely wasn't. Sam knew that look in his eye, and he’d honestly rather Bucky slash his arm open again rather than deal with Steve when he was looking at him with that furious, tearstained face.

He unlocked the handcuffs.

Bucky yanked his hand back like the cuffs were hot and had been burning him the whole time, but he still didn’t let go of Steve as he pulled his hand up to his chest and drew his knees in, protecting himself in case anybody got any ideas about putting the cuffs back on him. Steve could feel Bucky’s heart pounding wildly, and he flattened his hand to rest squarely over it. Bucky had told him once, so long ago, that the weight made it feel a little bit less like it was going to beat out of his chest.

"I'm right here, I'm not going anywhere." Steve kept one hand over Bucky’s heart, and used his other to guide Bucky’s only arm up to rest against his cheek. Bucky’s hand was freezing, but Steve was hoping the warmth of someone else’s skin and the wetness of someone else’s tears would help ground him.

“See? ‘M right here. You’re okay, Bucky. You’re safe now.” Steve took a deep, shaky breath, squeezing his eyes shut for a moment before opening them again to meet Bucky’s gaze. He was calmer now, chest still heaving but without the high pitched gasps that caught in his throat. Steve rubbed his thumb over the cold skin of Bucky’s chest and smiled gently at him. This was familiar, this was rainy nights and cold mornings wrapped up in the sheets together, this was Bucky's head in his lap as he came down from a half remembered nightmare about a place that smelled too sterile and looked too bright. They'd survived this a thousand times before, they could manage a thousand and one right now. And they would. If it meant having Bucky back, Steve was looking forward to every single panic attack they were going to have to survive.

Together.

“I got you, Buck. You’re safe now. You’re home. God, you’re home.” 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Some of Bucky's memories may not make total sense- they're supposed to be that way, since Bucky doesn't understand them either. They'll get explained more as he progresses. 
> 
> I am trying very hard to be accurate and respectful of the issues thee characters face. Bucky's anxiety and panic attacks are modeled after my own, so if they seem unrealistic.... cool. I do not deal with PTSD or disassociation, though, so if I'm being inaccurate just lmk. 
> 
> You can come hang out with me on tumblr at dracomalfyaoi. I don't reblog a lot of marvel, but I do love to make new friends :)
> 
> Thanks always to gay-on-the-moon, this was so much fun to write with him :)


	6. James Barnes (part 2)

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Nothing happens. You can literally skip this. It's 4,000 words of them crying. I have an unfinished essay and this is how I spent my time instead.

Even in the midst of his panic, Bucky didn't actually expect someone to actually help. He just wasn't used to it. When something was wrong, either he had to calm the fuck down and fix it himself or it wasn't gonna get fixed and he'd just have to adjust. He guessed that was one of the perks of not being a ghost, people actually gave enough of a shit to not let you just sit there feeling like you were dying. He had his hand on Steve's cheek now, the sensation forcing him to focus just a little bit and sort of register that Steve was there. He was promising he wasn't going anywhere, promising that everything was okay. Bucky had no idea what 'okay' was supposed to be, but the smile on Steve's face was enough to convince him that it wasn't unattainable now.  
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Grounding, that was the most important part, getting Bucky back from where he was to where he belonged. This wasn't Russia, it wasn't the streets, it was here and it was now and that was safe. Bucky wasn’t hyperventilating any more, that was a good thing, but Steve could still see panic in his eyes and it was making him feel sick. After everything, he wanted Bucky to just feel _safe_  for once. Steve would sit here all night if that’s what it took.

They’d had a mantra, after Bucky came home. His therapist had suggested it, so Steve and Bucky had snuggled together on the couch and wrote out the things that helped Bucky remember that he was home and not being hurt any more. They’d stuck with facts, and avoided mentioning specific people so anyone could help Bucky with the mantra. Bucky had explained that simple facts helped, and Steve had added some in that Bucky seemed to have a hard time believing at first. Still, it worked very well. Or it had, until it wasn’t enough and Bucky had felt the need to leave anyway.

"I want you to repeat after me, alright? 'My name is James Buchanan Barnes. I grew up in Brooklyn. I'm home. I'm safe.'" He murmured, carding through Bucky’s overgrown hair- he still couldn’t decide which part of him he wanted to touch, to fuss over, to fix. All of him, and he couldn’t pick where to start. He just needed to keep Bucky’s attention on him- Bucky knew this one, or he had once. If he didn’t any more, then Steve wouldn’t rest until Bucky knew again that these weren’t just facts, they were promises.

"Come on, ba- .... Buck, say it for me. I know you can."

Bucky looked at him with wide eyes, the distance in them cluing Steve in that Bucky was losing touch with reality and really needed grounding right now. Steve tried to look encouraging, and must have done slightly better than a piss poor job because Bucky tried in a faltering voice to repeat him.

“James Barnes. James Barnes, 3255-” Bucky flinched, and Steve tried not to do the same as his heart broke all over. Bucky had done that when he’d first come home, flinch whenever he’d done something wrong because those Russian fucks had hit him when they didn’t like something he’d said. Or when they just wanted to hit him. Steve had absolutely hated that there was nothing he could do- he couldn’t suffocate Bucky with gentle touches, and even the ones he gave had never been enough to completely eliminate those heart wrenching flinches.

That was the old mantra, the one he’d repeated in Russia. Bucky had told Steve that they’d taken his dogtags (recovered when he was rescued), all his personal belongings, any identifiers. Men had acid poured on tattoos so they wouldn’t be able to discern the marks from home. There were men who no longer knew their own names, or if they did, didn’t look up any more because they knew they didn’t want to see the face that was calling for them. Bucky had confessed that he’d taken to repeating his information- desperately, repeatedly, in the hopes that even if he forgot them his tongue would remember, and he’d be able to match himself to the mysterious identity. It had become a sick little game between him and the doctors- they liked to see how much they could do to him before he stopped his mantra.

The therapist had agreed that mantras were helpful, but a new one may hold fewer traumatizing memories.

Steve was prepared to have to coax Bucky out of a fresh panic, but his heart sang when Bucky swallowed hard, gripped his hand tighter, and tried again. Bucky had always been so determined, so resilient. When you really looked at it, so little had changed.  
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“M-My name is James...Buchanan Barnes,” He forced himself to breathe. Three slow in, three slow out. He'd work on getting to five, but three was okay for now.

"I grew up in Brooklyn." He didn't know that one, but it made sense. New York seemed too similar for him to have grown up anywhere else.

"I'm home."

Wrong.

He was in a hospital, frightened out of his mind. Hospitals weren't home, they were prisons. He didn't have a home. He had sections of New York that he’d stayed in longer than others. Dumpsters that were drier, districts that had lower crime rates, restaurants that threw away more food. He had places that were easier to survive in than others, but he didn’t think he’d know a home if it fell on him.

Unless- his eyes searched Steve, and he was the most familiar thing in his life right now. Granted, that wasn't too familiar, but it was miles more than anything else Bucky knew, so it was comforting. Wasn’t home supposed to be what you knew best? Maybe, for right now, Steve could be his home.

He had even more trouble with the last statement. He'd never been safe. Even now, with Steve carding through his hair and the blanket starting to take the edge off his shaking, he wasn't safe. There was a guy who had tased him standing feet away, and it still smelled like medical supplies and he was still in a hospital. He trusted Steve, but a few moments of not feeling like he was in peril weren't quite enough to make him believe that last statement.

"I'm. Safe?" He barely breathed the words, the last word coming out as a question. He’d only forced it out in the first place because he didn’t want to disappoint Steve. He was still adjusting to not being handcuffed down; any place that did this to him couldn't be safe. The fog that had been slowly dissipating as he repeated Steve’s words seemed to edge back in now that he was doubting, remembering, getting lost in the pain he couldn’t place.

"You got it Buck, you got it." Steve was nodding and sniffling, oblivious to Bucky’s shame that he couldn’t believe what he was being told. He could feel Steve’s fingers in his hair, working at the knots Bucky had missed. Steve was refusing to tug, but Bucky wouldn’t mind. Sometimes pain helped shoo away the relentless fog.

"One more time, just like that. ‘My name is James Buchanan Barnes. I grew up in Brooklyn. I'm home. I'm safe.'" Steve was smiling and his eyes were shining again, and Bucky dully wondered which one of them needed to believe the mantra more.

"My name is James Buchanan Barnes." Wasn't that a president? Who the fuck names their kid 'Buchanan'? Maybe that was why Steve called him Bucky. He preferred Bucky, because Bucky didn't have eight numbers following his name and Steve didn't say 'James Buchanan Barnes' like it was the air in his lungs. James had a certain weight attached to it. He was pretty sure no one actually called him James, except at the hospital and whoever gave him the numbers.

"I grew up in Brooklyn. I'm home." He was getting softer with each word, but he'd calmed back down all the way to a five count and there were only a few stray tears left now. He had so many damn questions for Steve. Who the fuck Steve was, who Bucky was, what the numbers were, how they knew each other and what they were to each other. He was just so tired. Panicking and getting tased and being undernourished were very tiring, and he'd been ready to sleep over an hour and a stab wound ago. It was a different kind of tired than he was used to. It wasn't dangerous where he needed to hide and sleep as fast as possible, it was a tired where he almost regretted it but also was pretty sure he might actually feel rested when he woke up. Only thing was, he was terrified of Steve not being there when he woke up. He might wake up and this all be a dream and he'd still be bleeding in the street, or worse everything else would be real but Steve would be gone and he'd be alone with a person who'd tase him and he wouldn't be able to trust even the broken sensations he called memories.

He couldn't bring himself to say the last sentence again. It had just sounded so foreign coming out of his mouth the first time he'd known it couldn't be true, and maybe he was disappointing Steve but he had been through too much life to truly believe in the word 'safe' any more

"I'm sorry," Was the best he could do. "Please don't go." He tightened his grip on Steve’s hand, like he could keep him from leaving- Steve had said he wouldn't, but Bucky was still damn terrified that he wouldn't do something right and he'd be punished. He wanted Steve to stay until... he didn't know what, exactly. He didn't want to fall asleep, didn't know what he was supposed to do. He'd spent what to him was his entire life just making it from day to day. A future, this complete disruption of his routine of simple survival was too much to comprehend. He could only focus on what was right here and right now, and that was Steve and warmth and safety. He was handling that okay enough, but if Steve left now Bucky was sure his whole world would fall apart.  
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Bucky's breathing calmed, his sobbing eased off, and Steve could finally feel himself breathing right again. Not just for now, when he could blink and no longer have his vision blurred by tears- but for every day of the past two years that he spent waiting for anything. He felt like every breath for the last two years had been labored even for him, like Bucky’s absence had been pollen agitating his asthma or a particularly nasty respiratory infection, and now that he was back it was like he’d had some miracle serum injected into him that made every breath effortless and refreshing. It was like Steve had been trudging through a limbo for the past two years; he hadn't known if Bucky was doing well, if he was happy, or even if he was alive.

That last one would have been the most important to know.

That was the thing though, wasn't it? Bucky had been alive and in New York the entire time, he'd been out there on the streets when Steve gave up, when he stopped plastering posters onto every window he could and focused on moving on instead of bringing him home. Bucky had sat under a dumpster trying not to freeze to death while Steve was busy taking down his pictures and boxing up his clothes, telling himself that Bucky was _never_  coming back and that there was nothing more he could do about it.

Bucky didn't know how quickly Steve had given up on him, let other people tell him that there was nothing more they could do and just accepted that he was never going to see Bucky again. This was his fault, Bucky was here, shivering and crying and apologizing for not feeling safe because Steve hadn't done more. He could focus on apologizing later; he had a thousand things to make up for, a thousand ways he needed to begin fixing everything that had happened to Bucky because of this. And still it was Bucky who asked him to stay, who held onto him tighter and begged him not to go away because he didn't give the 'right' answer. That was his fault too, he'd let Bucky disappear and he hadn't found him, and now they were here.

"I'm not going anywhere Buck, not unless you want me to." He swore around the fresh and painful lump in his throat, shifting closer to Bucky's curled up form. "I'm not ever going anywhere." Not again, he wouldn't- couldn't let this happen again. He'd barely gotten through it the first time, even less so the second. Maybe it was selfish of him to think that, but he couldn't imagine being without Bucky all over again.

"You don't have to apologize for that, either," He forced a smile for Bucky- his heart was breaking and he could still feel hot tears against his eyes, but Bucky deserved to have someone smile at him when he was scared. "I can do it for you this time, just until you believe it."

It wouldn't even begin to come close to how much he owed Bucky, but it felt like a start.

"You're safe, dar- Bucky. We’re safe." He punctuated each one with a light squeeze of the hand pressed against Bucky's chest and twined in his freezing fingers. He was never, ever going to let Bucky doubt that statement again. He had a thousand and one questions about where Bucky had been, how he'd survived, and what had happened to his arm, but those probably needed to wait about as much as the apologies. They had time now, that was what Steve had to keep reminding himself despite the seed of fear in his gut telling him that he'd open his eyes at any minute and he'd be back in bed, just as alone as he'd been the day Bucky left. He'd wake up and then he wouldn't know anymore, he'd be back in that limbo of praying that he was at least _alive_ , that he'd just gotten tired of Steve and left him without a word because that was the best outcome Bucky could possibly have.

There was a smaller part of him though, the little and childish part that told him _yes_ , this is _real_ , he's here and he's okay and he's alive, just like you always hoped. And right now he was just a little more inclined to believe the voice that told him his waiting was finally over, Bucky was finally coming home.

\----------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------

The tier of powers people around Bucky Barnes could possess was quickly growing. Sam was a miracle worker, Clint Barton was god and now Steve was whatever was above that, he was power or magic or maybe he was love, because that was the whole point of God, right? He definitely got the top tier of miracle workers, because his promise and his finishing the mantra for him got Bucky to relax a little bit, his muscles feeling odd by not being tensed. The fear was still obvious around the edges of his eyes, but in the center there was a spark of hope and comfort, matched by the grateful, exalting little smile Steve managed to pull from him. Steve was dragging him out of a miles deep river, he was forcing air into his lungs and warmth into his skin and one by one sharing the burdens that Bucky couldn't carry himself. Maybe he wasn't safe, but he was okay. He had someone who was going to try and stick up for him now, and everything felt just a little bit lighter because of that.

The old Bucky, with all his memories still intact, would've been able to deduce in a heartbeat that Steve was blaming himself and he would've bumped Steve's shoulder and told him to stop being such a self-sacrificing little punk. And if someone had told current Bucky what was going through Steve's mind, he would've agreed. Nobody could've known he was still out there. New York was a huge city, Bucky had wandered a lot in those first few weeks, mostly in a daze while his arm healed. He could've walked right past one of the missing posters and not even realized it was his face, that someone was aching worse than his stump of an arm for him to come back home. After the hair had grown in scraggly and tangled and exhaustion had made a home in his jutting bones and under his eyes, he couldn't even remember what he used to look like. He could've walked past a flyer and felt a pang of grief for that poor sonovabitch and whoever was looking for him and been none the wiser.

"Thank you." He breathed out. The panic had ebbed away, and he was quickly feeling numb and drained. That had freaked him out when it was just Sam with him, but he felt safe with Steve, like Steve would look out for him. He'd seen people with friends before. Homeless people with a buddy, sometimes human or canine or feline, that they never parted with. They shared food and space and warmth and shelter. He'd seen people walking hand in hand on the streets, people giving quick kisses or hugs or cheerily saying 'love you, mom' or 'see you soon' into their phones. This probably wasn't the same, because he knew next to nothing about Steve except for his first name and that he was small and blond but spoke and acted and carried the expression of a soldier, and that he was warm and kind and smart and smelled like clean laundry. But those things could be enough, for now. Steve was his friend. Bucky was pretty sure about that, and he didn't know how he could ever thank Steve enough.

"What am I supposed to do now?"

It was a juvenile question, and the weakness of his dying voice didn't exactly cushion his dignity, but he had no idea what the fuck to do. His existence before now had been devoted to staying alive and staying out of the way. He was either supposed to be asking for change (which he rarely did) or looting dumpsters for food and water (gross but better than talking to strangers and dealing with disgusted looks and nosy questions he couldn't answer) or tucking himself out of the way so he could sleep. On a rare occasion he could scrape up enough change to go shopping, get bars of soap and toothpaste and a fresh egg meal on the mcdonald’s dollar menu that wasn’t a fucking egg mcmuffin. He had little tasks to break the monotony, like moving on a few streets over because becoming too familiar to an area meant trouble, finding soup kitchens or shelters or YMCAS he could swing by for a while without being heckled. He managed to keep himself from being too disgusting, finger combing his hair as best he could with his one hand every day (judging by the time Steve was having with it he hadn't done a great job, but it could be worse) and showering every few days (showing up at the Y every day invited too many questions), even during the exceptionally lean periods when he didn't have soap and had to rely on the water to try and wash the smell of cigarette butts and trash and smoggy New York air off his body. He couldn't wash his clothes, he just had to try and not wear through them until he could find something in a Salvation Army bin to replace it. All those were day to day tasks, along with things like not getting stabbed by drug dealers or tased by cops.

Funny that his first failure had all but saved his life.

This wasn't anything like his old life, though. On the street, the moment he could stand he needed to be moving to keep away the chill and to try and find some half-eaten burger on the top of a bin. He didn't have a task here. Didn't have to find food or shelter or water or even warmth, couldn't move on because this was where he was supposed to be, and his mind was too addled to try and piece together all the questions he wanted to ask. He should probably sleep, but he didn't want to stop looking at or listening to the familiar sound of Steve's voice. He didn't want to be hooked up to machines or handcuffed again, and he didn't want them to make Steve go away while he rested. He'd rather stay up for another week than have to be in a hospital without the only thing he was even close to recognizing.  
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Steve suddenly wished he could run back, put the pictures back in their frames and hang up all of Bucky's clothes like they'd never moved. Then Bucky wouldn't have to know that Steve had tried everything to move on, he wouldn't get half recalled memories of things that /used/ to be there but had to be moved so that Steve could go on living in that apartment. That was why he'd thrown out his easel. He'd painted Bucky too many times with it, the wood had been stained with him and it bled too much into every painting. Steve hadn't wanted to see the long dried flecks of paint and remember times when Bucky existed in the same space as him.

Would Bucky even know, though? Would he remember anything about their apartment, or would that just be one more thing that he'd apparently forgotten? He seemed to know Steve, even if he didn't /remember/ him, that had to at least count for something. If he'd remembered the apartment he would have tried to come home at least once, wouldn't he? It wasn't like Steve expected him to somehow be magnetically pulled to the place, but still...

Now wasn't the time for that though, not when Bucky had questions and concerns and needed someone planning the next few steps out for him. They'd done this before, during winters when Steve got sick and on days when the weight of what had happened to him became too much to bear on his own. He could figure this out, as long as the end result was finally,  _finally_ taking Bucky back home where he belonged.

"First," He started, moving his hand from Bucky's hair to wipe quickly at his own eyes and any stray tears that remained stuck to his face. "we get you something to eat." Always a good place to start. "They'll look you over, we'll get whatever medication they think you'll need, and then--" He'd been waiting to say these words for too long. "then, we'll go home. I’ll make you something nice and hot, promise.” Bucky had done that so many times for him and god, when was the last time Bucky had eaten anything of sustenance? He was skin and bones, not as bad as when he’d come home from Russia but reminiscent of it.

“We can get you cleaned up, or that can wait till tomorrow. And you look exhausted, you should probably sleep. So we’re gonna go home, okay? And eventually we’ll start figuring everything out, but tonight we’re just gonna get you okay. Does that sound okay?” Steve pushed Bucky’s hair back again, but it was really just an excuse to cradle his face and watch Bucky’s achingly weary eyes meet his and spark just a little bit in hope.  
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"Home?"

It sounded foreign, even more so than the curious word word _собака_ that he had faintly remembered among the names he'd been given. A good foreign, though. Foreign like the warm blanket settled around his shoulders and the feeling of hope and trust. He didn't have a home, but he had Steve. He wondered what kind of place Steve was talking about. What color the walls were, if they had any pictures on them, what knickknacks or odds and ends were strewn about and never quite got tidied up, what got deemed important enough for the refrigerator and what sat out on the kitchen counter. Bucky could remember all the things that came with a home, he just couldn't personalize them.

"I don't have to stay here?" He had yet to see a doctor, but he knew was sick and real banged up, and that doctors didn't like you leaving the hospital. It had been a little different that time. He didn't get any visitors, and health didn't exactly seem like the primary concern. Here he'd been given a blanket and an IV and was promised food, and he had a slowly growing feeling that there might be something different about the two hospitals. Maybe this one didn't double as a prison. He glanced at Sam, the first time he'd done so since Steve had arrived. Sam was the warden, the guy who decided where he got to go and when, and would make it very clear if Bucky was doing something wrong. He was pretty sure Sam had only tased him once and in self defense, but it was still bleeding together with the memory of electricity shooting through his head, of a faint buzzing drowned out by his screams. Nothing was wrong, but even now he felt his body twitch just thinking about it. He looked away from Sam again, head lowered like a beaten dog. You don't piss off the warden.

Bucky didn't bother letting go of Steve's hand, not even to try and clean up his own red, puffy, dirty face. He did manage to loosen his grip a bit, but every second he prayed that Steve wouldn't pull his hand back because aside from this being the only human contact he'd had in months, Steve's hand had become what he focused on to keep himself afloat in the sea of bad smells and bad sounds and bad lights all reminding him what a bad place this was. Steve had gotten the handcuff off him, Steve could protect him if the cop decided he wasn’t allowed to leave. If Steve wanted to take him somewhere, Bucky was allowed to say yes.

"Yeah, that sounds good." His voice was a little strained, too emotional at the idea of not just being somewhere warm and with Steve, but somewhere warm and with Steve that wasn't a hospital. "I don't wanna stay here, I wanna go- home."

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> wow gay
> 
> I told you nothing happens but honestly I really couldn't bring myself to cut any of it.


	7. Somewhere Far From What Keeps Us Apart

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Mindless indulgence. Bucky gets the goddamn sandwich he deserves.

Bucky was probably purposely assigned the least intimidating looking doctor on the hospital staff (an Indian woman about five feet tall if she were wearing heels, with warm brown eyes and a quick smile), and still he had to visibly fight against himself (and often lose) to keep from cowering away from her, or cringing and flinching every time she touched him.

Steve didn’t understand it. Bucky didn’t like hospitals, that was true. He’d hated them from a young age, because hospitals meant Steve was even more sick than usual, meant bills and budgeting and Steve’s voice rasping in his throat for weeks. That had been a distaste, and after the war it had gotten even worse. Steve didn’t know everything, but he knew Bucky had been experimented on in Siberia. Pretty nasty things, things Bucky wouldn’t talk to him about. He’d described where he was kept as sort of a mixture between a filthy prison and a sterile hospital, and even though in America there were neutrally colored walls and flowers on the bedside table and colorful knitted blankets from home, it had been obvious from day one that hospitals reminded Bucky of where he’d been kept for so long. In the early days he had flinched and squeezed his eyes shut and gripped the guardrails on the bed to keep himself from hyperventilating, but he’d gotten better with time. This was as bad, or maybe worse, than those first few weeks. At least then, Bucky had been fighting the fear; now he seemed like he had accepted it. He was shrinking away, but also hanging his head like he was under the impression that if things really did go wrong then there was nothing he’d be able to do about it. Steve could only offer murmured comforts and a tight grip on Bucky’s hand to try and keep him from falling apart.

He wasn’t sure Bucky noticed, anyways. He’d started doing this when he came back, Bucky’s therapist had called it... dissociating. He sort of disconnected from reality when it all started to feel like too much. There were different intensities, sometimes he’d just be a little distant and sometimes he’d be like this- almost catatonic, glassy eyed and complacent, even allowing himself to be puppeteered by the doctor when needed. Steve didn’t try to bring him out of it, he figured Bucky’s brain needed a break. He just kept holding his hand, kept assuring him that things were alright now and the doctor wasn’t going to hurt him. There were about a thousand other things he’d rather do, but this was what he had right now and he was going to do his best to be what Bucky needed, even when what he really needed was to not be in this fucked up six ways till Sunday situation.

It was a delicate process, with saliva swabs and and x rays and a slightly gruesome examination of the stub of Bucky’s arm (horrific scars carried up past his shoulder, and it didn't end cleanly. It'd likely have to be patched up later), and even a CAT scan (Steve had expected him expected to be really freaked out by that one, but Bucky didn’t even seem fazed. Steve hoped Sam was right in his guess that it probably reminded Bucky of sleeping under dumpsters, and that Bucky wasn’t really just totally out of it and half paralyzed in fear).

Steve had spent plenty of time in hospitals; as a baby with a bad heart, a sickly child with a penchant for triggering his own asthma attacks, and even now as an adult who just didn't know exactly when to quit and give his body a rest. He was almost always used to being on the other side of the bed though, it was something else entirely to have to watch Bucky go through his x-rays and his CAT scan and to hear about all the damage that had been done to him as little more than a background observer. Maybe this was how Bucky used to feel every time he ended up back here- the thought alone was almost enough to make him laugh. Almost. Bucky's face every time a doctor got too close knocked that right out of him. It felt so much like those first few months Bucky had been back home, every sound and movement catching his attention like a startled deer.

Steve just kept holding his hand though, he had two hands, he could rub away Bucky's tears with one and squeeze Bucky's fingers with the other if that was what he wanted. Steve knew that was definitely what he wanted, part of him still sure that the moment he let go he'd discover that it was all a cruelly vivid dream and that Bucky would still be nowhere to be found. Steve couldn't stay in limbo any longer, not now that the idea of 'home' suddenly felt like so much more than a place to paint and a roof over his head.

Even after all that, there were still way too many things wrong with his best friend.

“We’re looking at quite the cocktail of problems here.” The doctor was speaking to him instead of Bucky, because from the glazed look in Bucky’s eyes and his hazy responses, it was pretty clear that Bucky wasn’t lucid enough to be the one in charge of getting all his medical information. Steve didn’t mind; Bucky had done the same for him several times, when Steve was sick and couldn’t stay awake long enough to get all the details.

“So, let’s start with the obvious. He had recently reached a severe stage of hypothermia when he came in, but he’s out of the woods now that we’ve got blankets on him and a warm saline drip. No warm baths, no trying to rub heat back into his limbs or you’ll risk him heating up too fast and could cause a dangerous drop in blood pressure. Just keep him dry and warm and resting. There’s a superficial stab wound that by some miracle doesn’t look infected, it was stitched up on the way over here. Watch that, make sure he keeps it dry for at least 48 hours, and clean. That’s what’s easiest to solve. He’s also dehydrated and malnourished. He’s been drinking water, as you’ve seen, just make sure he keeps drinking. A regular diet should take care of the malnourishment, just watch what he’s eating and how much. Sometimes people in his condition insist they’re full, or forget to eat because they’re used to being hungry. Just be vigilant and he’ll be fine.”

She sighed and pinched the bridge of her nose. Steve waited patiently, his heart hammering in his throat and Bucky’s hand clutched tightly between both of his own. She’d only covered the little things. There was more, there was the big question looming over them, but he didn’t want to ask until she brought it up.

“You’ve heard that cough he’s got? I’m hoping it’s pneumonia, it could very well be tuberculosis. I’ll prescribe an antibiotic and he’ll need a checkup, and to go to a doctor immediately if there’s any blood coughed up or if it gets worse. I have no idea how he survived losing an arm in the street if he didn’t go to a hospital, but regardless of that some of the bones didn’t set right. He’s probably dealing with some chronic pain because of that, and if left untreated it could cause lasting issues down the road. Fixing it would involve surgery, we would have to rebreak some of the bones to let them heal correctly, but those procedures are more common than you’d think. There’s also some cosmetic things that can be done, some of which I would recommend to help with nerve pain and some of which are necessary if you’re interested in fitting him for even a basic prosthesis.”

“As for the memory loss... Chronic retrograde amnesia. We can’t find any lasting traumatic brain injuries, and preliminary tests rule out other diseases and infections known to cause memory loss. We’ll run some more tests that will take longer to receive results for, but I’m thinking it’s something more physical than that. A concussion during his accident, or repeated concussions during his time missing, are probable, but if they’ve healed then there’s no way to be sure how severe they were or how much lasting damage they caused. Traumatic incidents, like losing a limb, have also been known to cause amnesia. A rarer explanation would be a fugue state, which is when a person completely forgets their identity and often assumes a completely new one for an extended period of time. They are very rare, but with the history of PTSD and dissociation in his file and the traumatic incident, he would be a prime candidate for a fugue. Fugues generally resolve themselves at random, and he would be towards the extreme end of the spectrum for how long his state has lasted, but there’s no way to be sure of anything. I’m going to refer him to a specialist who might be able to help. I know this is a lot of information, but I’ve had a nurse prepare all the informational and care packets we have, to help you remember everything. And once Mr. Barnes is rested and fed, he’ll be able to do most of this for himself.”

Steve’s head was reeling.

“You’re- you’re talking like he’s coming home tonight, like this is all up to me and you won’t be monitoring him.”

It was a weird thing to take from alll that, but what could he say? Bucky coming home was all that he’d cared about for too many months, not all of them consecutive. Home, where he’d be safe and not scared any more, was that too much to ask? The doctor had been giving instructions, though, the kind that were given when someone else was going to be in charge. She smiled, and Steve’s heart jumped up into his throat.

“Well, yes. Now normally I’d laugh someone out of this hospital if they suggested this, but there’s nothing that technically requires him to be here overnight. I would normally require it, because so many of his individual issues are better if kept under observation, but his file mentioned an extremely traumatic history with hospitals, and more than anything his mind needs to rest now. He needs to feel like he’s in a safe environment, and keeping him here could traumatize him further and make his condition worse. Officer Wilson informs me you are quite experienced with home care, and you’ll have many doctor’s appointments. You also absolutely must bring him straight back here if there’s any worsening in his condition, except the cough- that’s going to get worse before it gets better. But yes.” She smiled and nodded at the hopeful-without-daring-to-hope expression on Steve’s face; “Yes, he can go home. Now, the amnesia and the fact that he was unable to provide for himself while suffering from this memory loss means Mr. Barnes here is required to have a legal caretaker until he is approved by a psychiatrist to be trusted with his own safekeeping.” She scribbled a few notes and prescriptions, neatly tucking them into a purple folder handed to her by a nurse. The folder was nearing an inch thick.

Steve had to take a breath to keep himself from sobbing in relief. He didn't want to think about what might have happened if they'd wanted Bucky to stay. It wasn't like Steve had any real claim to him; they were each other's emergency contact, but they still would have had to ask Steve to leave by then end of the night- and then what? Bucky had been handcuffed when Steve first showed up, because otherwise he would have bolted. Would they try that again? Did they even realize how much of a bad idea that was? Could he even complain, considering the necessity of it?

“This has all the care pamphlets we issue for each of his individual issues, and some referrals and prescriptions for an antibiotic, and dietary and immune supplements. I know this is a lot to take in at the moment, but the information in here should refresh you on everything. Have Mr. Barnes read it and try to keep up with it all himself, but you’ll need to check that he’s properly keeping up with everything since he has proven that he isn’t completely capable of keeping himself in adequate health. Now, I’m assuming you would be his caretaker since you are his emergency contact and it was in his file that you lived together. He wouldn’t need you to be at home all day, just to be able to check on him when you are home. However, given the... difficult situation, with the memory loss, we can look for a next of kin to watch over him.”

Right. The ‘difficult’ situation. The situation that involved Bucky leaving him (intentionally?), for two years, never giving any word, not even that he was alive (had he remembered? When had he forgotten? How long had he just let Steve sit and ache and wonder before he’d lost his memories?). The situation that involved weeks of red rimmed eyes, fingers frozen from putting up posters, his first full blown asthma attack in a long time because he’d started yelling when Sam suggested to give up, and Bucky hadn’t been there with the spare inhaler when Steve realized he’d left his in his paint pants.

It wasn’t enough to make Steve not want with everything he had to take Bucky home.

“Buck?” He squeezed Bucky’s hand, still clenched between his own, and nudged him gently. “You with me, pal? You okay with me being your legal caretaker till you’re back on your feet? Or we can ask your mom to do it, if you’d prefer.”

Bucky turned his eyes towards him, but still didn’t look to be registering what was going on. Steve tried again.

“Bucky. Are you okay with me being your legal caretaker? You’re sick, you have to have one. You have other options, like your mom, if you’d prefer.”  
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His head started feeling foggy a few minutes after the saline drip was put into his arm, and it wasn’t long before he completely checked out and let his body run on autopilot.

This happened fairly often. It happened most when he got scared, or had powerful flashbacks- a hospital was all but certain to trigger one of these weird states. All Bucky could do was make sure to hold tight to Steve’s hand, so maybe Steve wouldn’t let go of him and he’d actually make it out of here.

  
He didn’t even remember coming into this room, when Steve nudged him and said something in a fuzzy voice; Bucky turned towards him and stared blankly, trying to make sense of whatever the hell Steve had just said to him.

He wasn't freaking out, but he wasn't exactly taking in what had been said either. A lot was wrong with him. He had a lot to do if he wanted to get better, he had to see more doctors. But he also got to go wherever Steve was going, and even though his brain felt foggy and he'd gone pretty limp, if he focused hard he was pretty sure Steve was still holding his hand. He couldn't help it, the doctor just spoke too fast and everything she did reminded Bucky that he'd need needles and doctors and maybe shocks and burns because he couldn't remember how to fix people any more.

“Bucky.” That was his name, and jesus he shouldn’t feel so warm when he heard Steve say it.

“-okay with me being your legal caretaker? You’re sick, you have to have one. You have other options, like your mom, if you’d prefer.”

“Yeah.” Yeah, he wanted to go home with Steve, he didn't want to stay here or go back to the streets. And he didn’t know his mom. Did he have a mom? Steve had said something about a mom, but Bucky wasn’t sure about her, and wasn’t lucid enough to remember that Steve was the one who knew about his family, not himself- despite being the one related to them. Amnesia erased memory, but dissociation and just plain exhaustion were what really addled the mind.

"Steve's okay. I'd like to go home." His voice was distant, but he was at least more cohesive than he generally was when he started feeling unreachably foggy like this. He leaned back to lie down, and realized that at some point they’d changed the angle of the bed so he could rest sitting up instead of curled into an undignified ball. He closed his eyes and settled into the pillow, focusing on Steve gripping his hand to keep calm and letting the words just wash over him, some making sense and most not.

"The first thing he needs is rest. Get some food in him if you can, and water, and then get him to sleep. It's the best thing for recovery. Don't worry about getting him cleaned up or caught up on what's going on, right now he needs to be unconscious and healing. He'll likely sleep for... over ten hours at least, that's expected. Wake him up after twelve and make him drink two glasses of water, but then he can go back to sleep. More information is in the folder, but I really am anxious to get him out of here. My EMT tells me he had quite the time getting him here, I don't want him in a traumatic setting any longer than strictly necessary."

"Right, of course. I'd really just like to get him home ma'am, he's never been a fan of hospitals. Doctor's offices might be a little better."

Bucky was lost to the fog after that for a while. He saw Steve writing a lot on sheets of paper, managed to register that Steve was signing forms for the hospital. Steve had to let go of his hand to talk to Sam for longer than Bucky would prefer; he refused to even look at the officer, partially out of spite and mostly because he was afraid he’d either be hurt again or have another freakout. Steve came back, though, stroking his hair and soothing him in that way that felt like hot soup- the good kind, that strangers had bought him from restaurants maybe once or twice in his time on the streets, not the watered down shit that the shelters served. Steve wasn’t some government issued mockery, he was home cooked and warm and real, and going to make him better.  
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From there it was more paperwork. Lots of paperwork, release forms and insurance information and benefactor agreements and stipulations, so many forms that Steve’s head was swimming. He hated leaving Bucky to do it, especiallt after seeing the look on his face when he dropped his hand, but Steve couldn’t let himself be focused on Bucky and get distracted from some crucial bit of information on the forms. He would have asked Sam to talk to him, but he was fairly certain that Bucky would fare better even alone than with Sam.

Speaking of Sam, he was handling this best out of everyone. It had to be pretty shocking to him, too, to have the missing person he’d searched for for way too long and given up on for longer, to suddenly be alive and mostly intact. Not to mention, he’d been slashed with a knife and worse, gone over his night shift hours without even getting a second cup of coffee.

Not that he showed any of that. He’d talked with doctors and the chief while Steve was in and out of various hospital rooms with Bucky, and then he’d just...stuck around. He kept his distance while Steve spoke with the doctor, but finally approached him again while Steve scribbled out forms.

“What’s gonna happen to him?”

“He’s coming home. I have to be a kind of benefactor, they’re saying he can’t be responsible for himself. All I can do right now is get him to sleep, we have to go to a specialist to see about... the amnesia.” He didn’t lift his eyes from the forms, something he knew would tip Sam off how much he was hurting, but he couldn’t swallow it down and force eye contact right now.

“Just like that? They’re not making him stay?”

“The doctor read his file. I told you about the hospital in Russia, how scared he was when he-” Steve shook his head and sniffed, trying not to get emotional again. He had to get himself together, if he wanted to help Bucky.

“Hey, man, you don’t have to talk about it, I get it. I just don’t want you to think you’re getting him back. They’re always different, the ones that do come back. Hell, there’s not even a guarantee he’ll remember, and I don’t want you to get crushed again, man.”

I _know_ he won’t be the same, Sam.” Steve lifted his eyes to glare at Sam and bite out the words. Everyone had told him the same thing when Bucky had first come back, like it would ever matter to Steve. He never thought Bucky returning was going to be a magical fix-all, that they’d be exactly the same, that it would be easy. But it was still insulting, that people would think he wouldn’t take Bucky in any form he could have him, how much it hurt to not have any part of him. He’d never abandon Bucky, damaged or traumatized or even missing an arm and his memories. Not even when Bucky had abandoned him.

Sam raised an eyebrow, and Steve suddenly remembered that Sam had served. He knew what it was like to watch your loved ones change forever, knew what it was like to come back different and know you’d never quite fit the memories everyone had of you. Steve deflated.

“I’m sorry. You’re right, I’m just protective of him. I have to be here for him, for myself as much as for him. And we did this before, when he first came back. Before I met you. Everyone kept telling me how different he was going to be, and it felt like they were trying to take him away again. And there was still more that was the same than different. I know he’s not going to come back and be with me again, but it’s still Bucky. He’s still my best friend, Sam, that’s what I have to focus on.”

“Alright. Not everyone can do that, I know when I came back I lost a lot of close friends who couldn’t handle the new me. But if you say you’re gonna stick by him, I’ve learned my lesson about doubting you. Just don’t forget yourself, okay man? Or me, I’m not just a replacement friend while your beau was gone.”

“Hey, I never thought of you as-”

Sam laughed, and the lighthearted sound helped take away some of the crushing pressure on Steve’s chest.

“I know, man. Make sure to call me and let me know how you two are doin’. And I expect a muffin basket to make up for this cut.”

Steve managed another smile and nodded. “Y’know, he’s actually a great guy. He was everybody’s friend. Maybe a reintroduction, when he’s feeling better...?”

Sam made a face, but nodded. “Can’t promise we’ll be dance partners, but I’ll give it a shot since you had me half convinced I was searching for Prince Charming for the last two years. It’s gonna be okay, man. C’mere.”

Sam gave him a tight hug, and Steve’s chest felt like it was cracking open again so the hard little ball of pain in there wasn’t as tightly lodged.  
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Bucky drifted after Steve like a ghost as they left the hospital. The doctor had noticed he was starting to drift off, chalking it up to exhaustion and shock and using dissociation as a coping mechanism for all he'd gone through today. Bucky didn't really catch what was said. They'd had Steve gently tug him along, and when he'd proved he could still walk without difficulty they let them leave, after forcing Steve to swear up and down he'd get medical help if Bucky's health got even the slightest bit worse.

 

Even the short walk from the cab to their apartment a few stories up was hard for Bucky, but Steve didn't falter once. Bucky felt his hand taken in between two small, thin ones, felt himself guided through snow and ice into a stairway, felt himself guided up the stairs and waited for patiently when he'd had to stop for several seconds just to not fall over. He couldn't quite remember where they were. Not where in the world, not what continent or country or city or street, he just knew they were going home. It didn't matter if home was USA or France or Russia, though, as long as the little soft warm safe thing that was Steve was guiding him there. Bucky made it inside without further incident.

  
He loved it. At this point he couldn't remember if this was actually home, or if he'd died somewhere in the street or the ambulance or the hospital and now the smallest, best angel they had was taking him up to heaven, which was a miracle he'd gotten into. He couldn't remember and he didn't care; at this point they were one and the same.

His daze was obvious as he shuffled through the living room, eyes blearily flicking across the canvases spread over the apartment walls and then drooping as soon as Steve sat him down at a small dining table tucked into the kitchen. He didn't have to make himself focus any more, there wasn't any danger about to kill him. Just Steve, just Steve’s home covered in canvases and someone clattering around the kitchen, being so domestic Bucky could feel his heart ache. He heard Steve ask if he wanted food, even though he sounded far away. He managed to nod, the corners of his mouth turning up again despite the vacant look in his eyes. Soup. Warm and gentle and fragrant, exchanged between cold hands and sometimes with kisses to warm forehead, soup meant blankets and worry and peace and getting better. Bucky subconsciously wrapped his arm around himself as he stared blankly at the kitchen wall, letting his thoughts happen without any conscious effort while he took a backseat to being a person for a while.

He heard a kind of clinking sound, and then his palm felt cold, and he realized Steve had guided his hand to a glass of water. He started drinking it in slow sips, then felt the warmth of Steve’s hand on his shoulder.

“I’m gonna be right back, okay Buck? You keep working on that, food’ll be ready in a minute and after that you can get some rest, and you’ll feel a lot better in the morning. Okay, I’m... I’ll be right back.”

Bucky blinked and took another sip, finally looking around the kitchen. It was small, even for a New York apartment, exposed brick and old pots and pans on the walls giving the room a warm and lived-in aura. He didn’t see dirty pots and pans in the sink, but there were a few dishes. When he was more alert, he’d put that together to realize that Steve didn’t cook much and ate whatever took the least effort, but for now those things meant nothing to him. He let his eyes rest on the fridge, scanning over the magnets there- souvenirs from museums, spaceships and an alien, some letters all shoved into a corner, a New York skyline, a Brooklyn dodgers magnet, and a rainbow. Was Steve...? Bucky knew that he himself was...something. He wasn’t sure if he was into girls; they were pretty, sure, sometimes jaw dropping. But he didn’t feel that warm affection like he had for that actor on that billboard, or passing businessman on the street. He definitely liked guys, he’d known that for a long time now. Did Steve? Did he and Steve used to...

Steve tapped his arm again, bringing him slightly closer to reality.

“You still with me, Buck? You can sleep in a minute, promise. I got some of your old clothes, they’re probably a little big for you now. You don’t have to wear them, I just wanted to offer in case you did. They’ll be a little bit more comfortable, and warmer.”

Steve set a folded pair of sweats on the table in front of Bucky, then headed to the stove. Bucky placed his hand on the material, feeling it- Steve was right, it was warm and soft, a lot nicer than the ragged jeans, flannel and coat he had on right now. They did look a little big, but so were the clothes he was wearing now. He’d gotten them when he’d had more meat on his bones, and this last winter had really melted the weight off him. He stood to go get changed, then saw Steve shaking his head as he came back with a bowl and a plate.

“Okay, but eat first, Buck. God knows how long it’s been since you... just eat, okay? Then you can go change and I’ll quit bothering you so you can sleep. Don't go shoveling it all in either you hear me? Your stomach will thank you later." Steve admonished him with a trace of fondness in his voice, but it still sounded...unnatural. Like Steve wasn’t used to telling anyone to take care of themselves.

Bucky had to keep that warning in mind to keep himself from inhaling the tomato soup and grilled cheese sandwich that Steve had set in front of him. The soup was thick and warm, and Bucky could swear he could still feel it radiating heat out from his stomach after he’d swallowed it. The sandwich added a pleasant, solid weight to his stomach, and Bucky had to close his eyes because it felt like he'd been knocked off his feet. This wasn't stale fries and soggy buns with meat someone else had had first, and it wasn't government-provided swill that tasted like cardboard but technically had calories in it enough to make your stomach stop cramping. This was food, food someone had taken the time to make for him and not 50 other people, just him, Bucky Barnes, because he had a name and a friend and a home. He ate slowly, mainly because his brain was too fried to eat fast and partially because every time he swallowed he felt the heat travel through him, to his belly and fingers and toes and the tip of his nose, chasing away the cold and the ghost and making him into a real person again.

"S'good." He mumbled. "Thanks, Stevie." His mouth was saying things without him, but it was okay. Right now, without realizing it, he was acting a little like Bucky Barnes before the war. Exhausted after work, back when his job was heaving and lugging stuff at the docks too small or irregular for the cranes to carry, back before the war and the less intensive job he'd gotten at the packing place afterwards. He'd come in with aching muscles and cold hands and a grumbling stomach, but he'd smile at Steve and sit quietly at the table and listen to Steve talk about his day and mumble the pet name that always got a hell of a lot more frequent whenever he was tired and his affection really started bleeding through.

“It’s nothin, Buck.” Steve sounded a little breathless. Bucky didn’t ask, because he was too exhausted and because he didn’t need to know if he was making Steve ache by being this shattered image of what he’d once been.  
\----------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------  
"...Here's the bedroom." Steve opened the door to the little room they used to share, watching Bucky look around and take in all the little details. A few of Steve’s paintings and sketches on the walls, plants in the window, the view of the fire escape they basically used as a balcony. Would Bucky recognize any of it? Did he even recognize the apartment in the first place? There'd been a thousand lazy days in here, cold mornings where they just curled into each other and lazed around until noon. There'd been been frantic, heated nights, fingers combing through hair and more spilled drops of soup and cracker crumbs than one could count, laughter and tears and more memories that Steve could ever count. Enough memories that it probably took two people just to hold them all.

Right now, though, it was just a plain bed with clean sheets in a warm apartment, and maybe that was all they needed it to be.

"You can get changed in here, there's a bathroom just down the hall too. Try and get some sleep, okay? I'll be out in the living room, so if you need me just shout." As if he wouldn't practically have his ear pressed against the door until he was sure that Bucky was sleeping peacefully. Steve had shut Wellie in the bathroom when he went to dig Bucky’s clothes out of the box in the closet, filled with Bucky’s things he hadn’t been able to toss. Wellie was sleepy enough to not smell Bucky yet; Steve would let her see him in the morning, but right now Bucky needed to sleep. It was weird, closing the door so Bucky could sleep, knowing he wasn’t going to join just as soon as he finished a painting, not even seeing Wellie curled up to keep him company. But one of the missing pieces was back, and if the biggest part of Steve’s heart coming back meant shifting some other pieces around for a little bit, he could live with that.

He spread out some spare linens on the couch, throwing an arm over Wellie when she hopped up to join him. Steve didn’t like to think about what he would’ve been like the first few weeks Bucky disappeared if he hadn’t had Wellie to take care of. She’d kept him sane, when Bucky was MIA and Wellie was a stranger but still the biggest part of Bucky that Steve had to remember his brave soldier. Then Bucky had disappeared again, and Wellie was someone else who remembered him, someone else who knew she probably owed her life to Bucky, another broken heart who didn’t judge Steve for refusing to move on until he was ready. She’d watched the door for Bucky coming home even longer than Steve had, still had one of Bucky’s old flannels in her dog bed, which she’d never even used until Bucky’s scent had apparently faded from everything else in the house. Steve had made himself move on, let Sam convince him to box up Bucky’s stuff. But Steve couldn’t even bring himself to throw out the box, and he couldn’t bring himself to take that flannel away from Wellie. After she’d stopped waiting at the door, sometimes seeing her shove her nose under that flannel and sigh was the only thing that would reassure him she hadn’t forgotten. Steve was close with Bucky’s family, but it wasn’t quite the same. He and Wellie weren’t blood with Bucky, they’d chosen him, and Bucky had chosen them. Their lives had been completely intertwined with Bucky’s. Bucky had saved both of their lives. Steve needed to know that Wellie hadn’t forgotten, that somebody else without the name of Barnes remembered the hero who picked up stray dogs in war zones and asthmatic five year olds on playgrounds.

Wellie licked his face, and it wasn’t until he felt the lump in his throat straining against his soft laugh that Steve realized he was crying again.

“It’s okay, Wellie. Good girl, I’m okay.” He’d slept on the couch a lot those first few months, because the bed was too cold and empty without Bucky. “He’s home, you’ll see him tomorrow.” He sniffed and wiped his eyes before closing them. His chest ached, and Wellie rested her head on top of it like she could tell. This was how they’d spent a lot of time, both hurting too much for words for their lost soldier. Steve had imagined him coming home, but hadn’t imagined it like this. But he didn’t mind hurting for Bucky if it meant he was home, and tried to pretend that the distance between the couch and the bedroom didn’t feel like just as much as the distance between New York and Siberia. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> bother me on tumblr @dracomalfyaoi
> 
> Here's Wellie!  
> https://s-media-cache-ak0.pinimg.com/236x/a7/d8/84/a7d884a42e03ad1984c34fe832de5d85.jpg
> 
> She's a blue merle Mudi if you want more cute pics.


	8. Sing the Song of Forgetting

Bucky did not move for just over twenty hours.

Steve reminded himself repeatedly what the doctor had said, that Bucky was exhausted and traumatized and needed to rest. Hell, he’d been effectively unconscious for days at a time with his own sicknesses before, only waking up long enough to eat or shower before trying to sleep off his latest battle with pneumonia or something else again. He’d just never realized how hard it was, cracking open the door and never seeing the pale blue eyes looking back at him, never hearing the rumbly breaths break to hear a deep and sleepy voice to greet him. Bucky had had to deal with this for years. Steve didn’t understand how Bucky had always smiled and pretended that this didn’t feel like something strong and mean had a grip on your heart.

He filled the hours with the hard stuff that he didn’t want to do, but wanted to shield Bucky from. He went through the purple folder, read pamphlets and called offices and made appointments, so many things to fix he half wondered which parts of Bucky were left to be breaking his heart and sleeping in what was once their bedroom.

He called Bucky’s mom, and all three of his sisters, managing to hold back his own tears as he explained what had happened. They agreed, thank god, to give Bucky a day or two before coming to see him- it was for Bucky’s sake, no one else’s. When Bucky had come home from Siberia, Steve hadn’t been able to see him for days- they weren’t married, and Bucky was only allowed to see family. Steve knew how much it hurt, being separated, but Bucky at least deserved to know he had a family before he was forced to suddenly meet them.

About twelve hours in, Steve ran out of pressing items on the to-do list and couldn’t resist waking Bucky up, just to see him for a few minutes. He gave him a glass of water and a sandwich, but Bucky only managed a ‘hey’, ‘thanks’, and draining the glass and eating about a fourth of the sandwich before he fell back asleep and Steve was alone again.

He went to the store and picked up too much food, he walked Wellie, he did load after load of laundry, he swept and probably would have vacuumed too if he wasn't worried about the noise, he walked Wellie again. Even his paint supplies ended up properly capped and organized instead of tossed out all over the place, the way he liked it. He fell asleep on the couch with the dog curled up on his chest again- it was only afternoon, but Steve hadn’t exactly gotten a perfect’s night sleep, and he was running out of ways to pass the time that weren’t just staring at Bucky and waiting for him to wake up.

Only after two a.m., when Steve was miserably staring at the phone and wondering if he should call a doctor and ask about this, did he hear Bucky finally start stirring around in the bedroom.  
\----------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------  
Bucky didn’t think he’d ever woken up this refreshed in his life. Not in his memory, at least.

The first thing he noticed was that he hadn't dreamed. He dreamed often, especially if he slept at night, especially if he slept for more than just a quick catnap. But the only thing he remembered since coming into the bedroom last night was a foggy image of Steve handing him a glass of water and a plate- judging from the fresh glass on the nightstand, that was something that had actually happened. He’d slept for longer than he ever had on the street, even at shelters- a look at the clock informed him that Steve was probably fully unconscious, and had had to spend his entire day probably thinking that Bucky had gone into a coma or something.

Bucky kept it quiet as he rolled out of the bed and cautiously stretched, but was pleasantly surprised to find that the worst pain he felt now was some general soreness in his body and muscles, some of it from his bruises and stab wound, some of it just from his general shitty condition. Still, this wasn’t bad. Steve had lent him some sweats last night, and they were baggy but a hell of a lot softer and warmer than anything he could remember wearing before now. He was hungry, but the kind of hunger that felt almost good because you knew good food was only about fifteen minutes of preparation away. It was a lot better than the sick kind of hunger that had all but settled into his bones when his only meal options were watery government soup or greasy trash can offerings.

Bucky had barely finished stretching the drowsiness out of his bones when he heard Steve knocking at the door, doing a piss poor job of hiding the concern in his voice with cheer. Bucky smirked. Steve was a terrible liar, always had been.

He was too tired to recognize the ‘always’, or wonder how it was that he knew that.

"Bucky? It's me, you sleep alright? You were out for a while, are you feeling any better now?”

Bucky smiled to himself and rolled his eyes. After months on the street and a stabbing and tasing, he’d finally gotten a decent meal and night’s rest and now was when Steve decided to worry. Still, he supposed he got it. Steve hadn’t been able to fuss over Bucky when he’d needed it, so he was probably trying to compensate by doing it now.

He pushed his hair out of his eyes and then opened the door, figuring Steve wouldn't calm down until he saw Bucky for himself. And he truthfully felt miles better this morning. His whole body ached and his lungs felt heavy and he was still dirty, but he was actually warm (he could feel all his fingers and toes. At least, all the ones still attached) and he didn't feel hunger pains and it hadn't taken him several minutes to work up enough blood flow to move again. He felt like a goddamn Olympian.

"Morning." He grumbled, then cleared his throat. His voice was was gravelly as shit, partially from sleep but mostly from all the phlegmy junk sitting on his his chest. Still, he sounded a lot more at peace than anyone in his condition had any right to be.

"Slept great. It's a wonder what it'll do for you to not sleep on disease ridden concrete." He smirked again before realizing Steve probably didn't want to think about that, so he cleared his throat and tried again.

"Yeah, I'm feelin’ a lot better, thanks." He didn't remember too much about last night, not after his initial conversation with Steve. Some fear, some warmth. Must've blanked out.

Bucky was sure he was a hell of a lot friendlier, conversational, and coherent than last night, but Steve was still just staring at him like he was a ghost and Steve had no idea what the ghost was going to do next. It made sense, really. Finding your long lost.... someone, it was bound to feel painful and dramatic. Tears and being paralyzed with fear, all of Bucky’s embarrassing antics from last night, they fit the situation. Now he was warm and trying to have a normal conversation around the gaping hole of his absence. It wasn’t working.

"You've probably got a billion and one questions for me." He sighed out with another weary smirk to try and lighten the mood. Steve deserved all the answers. More than Bucky could give, but he'd answer everything he could.  
  
That was his plan, but it was at this exact moment that an ungodly high pitched noise sounded from the apartment, followed by frantic thumping before a black... thing was crashing into Bucky's legs and scrabbling at him.

Wellie had been good enough to ignore the smell of him- she’d given both Steve and the bedroom door several wary looks and investigative sniffs, but eventually calmed down, likely under the assumption that Steve had just been going through Bucky’s things again. Now, though, she had actually been awake enough to recognize the voice of her old friend, distorted as it was by two year’s worth of hardship, and seemed intent to bark and whine at him until he made up for two year’s worth of petting.

“Wellie- shit, I was going to hold her and ease her into this, I’m sorry-” Steve tried to apologize, but Bucky was laughing (weak and sickly, but warm and _there_ ) and kneeling down to the floor to pet the dog, who was crying even more than the two boys combined had last night.

“No, no, don’t apologize- I see you, I know, girl.” Bucky liked dogs. He didn’t have a lot of experience with them, because strays didn’t stick around and few people let their lovely clean walking partners spend time with the creepy-looking homeless amputee, but he’d always felt drawn to them. Besides, it was refreshing to be liked. Wellie was all over him, had crawled up on his knees by now and was leaning into his chest, shoving her nose under his hand the second it left her long black fur.

“I know, I know, sweetheart. Look what the cat dragged in, huh?” Bucky’s face was bright and happy as he cooed to the dog, more than it had been even when he’d been promised a meal and a home. He just kept grinning and stroking the desperate pooch on his lap. He could empathize with that soul-consuming joy and terror and catharsis, and it was really nice to know he could just have a new friend he didn’t have to try and explain this giant mess to.

"I guess you ain't the only one who missed me?" He finally looked up at Steve, still smiling and ruffling the fur on Wellie’s back to keep her satisfied. Wellie started licking his chin, and it was all he could do to try and keep looking at Steve through his stifled laugh and scrunched up face.  
\----------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------  
Reuniting with Bucky had been hard. It had been painful and also felt like he had angels singing inside him, he’d been dazed and confused and hurt and relieved and a thousand other feelings all at once.

But now, after a few hours to himself, a few phone conversations where he’d had to repeat what had happened enough times to make it really sink in, Steve didn’t know what he was feeling. He didn’t know if he should be angry, or hurt, or relieved, or just happy. Every time he tried to think about it, some new point or counterpoint would change his mind. Bucky had _left_  them, for Christ’s sake. He’d broken his mother’s heart and made Wellie think she was abandoned and left Steve utterly, crushingly, alone. Shouldn’t he be furious?

But he didn’t even know if Bucky had done it on purpose. Bucky had been so lost, he hadn’t even known his own name. Had it really been like that for the whole two years? Everything just fell out of his head? If that really was the case, then Bucky had been as afraid and confused as he had been last night for two years, lost and cold and alone in New York while Steve had stopped looking, boxed up his things and taken down the photos so he could start to fill in the gaping hole in his chest. When he thought about that, all Steve felt was pain.

And then there was this. Bucky, with his grumbly sleep voice and sweats that didn’t used to be so loose on him, but were cozy and warm nonetheless. Bucky, laughing and stroking Wellie, even though his one hand made him only half as efficient at it as he used to be. Bucky, smiling up at him with pink cheeks and sparkling eyes just like he used to, and Steve was now very very sure that he was going to choose ‘happy’.

"Somebody had to miss you more than I did." He smiled and knelt down as well, stroking Wellie to try and help calm her down. She had service training, she’d get off Bucky if Steve gave the command, but she deserved to be a regular dog and get to go crazy at reuniting with her best friend.

"This is Wellie, I don't know if you remember all that much about her. On your last tour, you found her as a puppy in some abandoned town, and when you went MIA one of your friends brought her home. She's a good dog. Mostly. She was in training to be your service dog after you came home, so she’s really well behaved, but she still likes to steal socks out of the hamper and hide them under the bed. Never been able to break her of that habit." She liked Bucky's socks specifically. Steve looked up from where he’d been watching himself pet Wellie, the look on Bucky’s face suddenly making him very aware of how much he’d been talking. He couldn’t help it. He had to fill in two year’s worth of conversations with Bucky. On top of that, Bucky deserved to know things like this. He needed to know that he was a hero, a guy who picked up stray puppies and carried them around on his back and split rations with them for months. He needed to know that Wellie was the best dog, smart and devoted to her job but still a puppy at the end of the day. He needed Bucky to know what their life had been like, how loved James Barnes had been and still was. How happy they’d been. At least for Steve.

Wellie had settled into steadily licking Bucky’s shoulder and letting him stroke her, but Bucky was still staring at Steve with a weird expression. Steve raised his eyebrows, and Bucky shrugged.

“I was just thinking about how now I know more about this dog than I do about you. About anyone else in my life, really. I’d like to find out. And you deserve whatever answers I can give you, about... all this.”

Steve softened and smiled. It was easier to tell Bucky about Wellie, whom he was guaranteed to love just like before. Telling him about Steve Rogers, the scrawny artist who was no longer guaranteed to spend the rest of his life with Bucky Barnes, was a little bit harder. Still, Bucky wanted to know, wanted to remember. There was, technically, a chance he could remember. But would he remember just facts, like the fact that he’d been dating Steve since they were sixteen and seventeen, or would he remember _why_  they’d dated for so many years, all the reasons and moments and mysterious non-reasons why they’d once been so sure they were meant for each other?

There had been times when Steve had wished he could just forget about everything. Maybe then, he'd have been able to just get on with his life. He'd thought it would be easier- but looking at Bucky now, he knew just how wrong he had been. After everything he'd seen these past few days, it was impossible to imagine not being able to recall any of the times he'd shared with Bucky, with his mother; he couldn't even consider what that would feel like. Without memories, Steve thought he’d just be losing the gaping hole in his chest, but it looked like forgetting even the person most painful to lose was worse than just losing them. Bucky had had _nothing_ , every tiny act of affection had him beaming. Seeing how miserable Bucky had been, how much he seemed to like his old life... it made Steve decide that remembering was good, and made it easier to believe that Bucky hadn’t really just willingly walked away from it all.

"There's... A lot of questions between the both of us, I think." They could talk now, try and figure things out. Bucky had been pretty far gone the last time he was conscious, but now the only thing more remarkable than the increase in coherency was how little had changed about the way he spoke. There were no doctor’s appointments for the day, Steve could afford to take the day off work, Bucky was here and curious and so unchanged. And yet, so different. He’d forgotten all the biggest parts of himself, and now Steve had to explain the hole Bucky had left behind him.

"Why don't you get a shower in, first? I can get some breakfast started and then we can talk." More like Steve needed the time to decide exactly how to say ‘You have a mom and three sisters and one night I drank too much and your mom told me she knew how to lose you now since she’d done it once, and if she’d learned how to let go of your twice then I had to learn how to do it this once’, how to say, ‘Half your clothes don’t smell like you any more because Wellie would sleep with them and cry when the smell went away until I switched something out’, how to say, ‘I moved on but never stopped loving you, because I’ve been in love with you for most of my life that I remember, and I don’t know how to not be in love with you and I never want to learn’.

Somewhere in the fifteen minutes it would take for Bucky to shower, he’d figure out how to say it all.  
\----------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------

The showers at the YMCA had nothing on Steve's. They’d always felt like standing under a moderate rain, the water was never warm, and the place always smelled a little off. Steve's was so warm, Bucky stood still and just let it seep in for a moment. The pressure actually existed, too, and Bucky felt like a goddamn prince as he scrubbed away every last trace of the last two years. The heat seeped into his skin and even started nibbling away at the sad and the cold all the way inside his bones. It made him cough, and judging from the way his lungs felt heavier today, Bucky was pretty sure that whatever was wrong with them was gonna get worse before it got better. But it was getting worse in a warm apartment, while he had access to healthcare, which was a hell of a lot better than in a dark alley where not being surrounded by secondhand smoke and taxi fumes was equivalent to a spa treatment.

Another plus to a fully functional shower was that it lent itself to introspection. He really, really hadn’t wanted to stop talking to Steve, not when he was finally lucid and calm enough to find out about his life and not when Steve was smiling like that, but he was glad he had now. Maybe here he would wash away a little more of the heartache, leave himself open and raw and have a little bit of an easier time discovering Bucky Barnes. In here, he could collect his thoughts better, decide which questions he wanted answers. He wanted to know who Steve was, if he had a family, wanted to know more about the Bucky Barnes that had been a soldier. He wanted to know what was wrong with him, why he couldn’t remember. If he ever was going to remember. He wanted to know if he’d have a place to go even if he never did, if he was going to go back out into the street or if he was going to be allowed to stay here, with the warm shower and good water pressure and shampoo that smelled familiar despite not smelling like any ingredient that Bucky could name.

After washing his hair twice and scrubbing his body so much he was pretty much all pink, Bucky deemed himself clean enough to shut off the stream of water and step out onto Steve’s fluffy bath math. Now came the hard part. Showering wasn’t bad, you didn’t have to look at anything other than the lurid passages on the back of the shampoo and shower gel bottles. Outside of the shower, there was a mirror. You had to look at yourself and find the flaws, and not all of them were fixable.

He started where he thought it’d be easiest, wiping a circle into the steamy mirror and preparing the razor that Steve had lent him. He didn't like the beard because it made him look old and sad and it picked up dirt and felt scratchy, but razors were expensive and he’d needed every extra hair to hold in body heat. But he didn’t need that now. Off it went, and even Bucky couldn’t help but notice how much younger he immediately looked. Even when he’d first woken up after the daze from losing the arm, he’d been pretty covered in grime and looked pretty rough. This was the first time he’d cleaned himself up, really, and immediately he looked less like a stray.

He’d kept his hair from matting by just combing it with his fingers, but there were still a few knots for the comb to pull through. He would’ve just been happy for it not to be greasy any more, but Steve’s shampoo was a lot better than the cheap travel bottles Bucky had kept in his drawstring bag. His hair wasn’t exactly easy breezy beautiful, covergirl, but it looked nicer. Maybe with some actual nutrients in his body and some time sheltered from the elements, the overgrown strands would actually start to look like one of those trendy styles he saw on the streets and less like a mop someone had thrown away in 1985 that was now strapped to his head.

Bucky's eyes traveled down, to the more abused parts of his body. He had about two thirds left of his upper left arm, but it wasn’t...complete. A lot of it was twisted and mangled and just leftover skin with no bone or anything useful. Or something like that. Bucky couldn’t really tell what was going on with it after a certain point, it became just a mass of scarred and twisted flesh. He was glad the sweatshirt Steve had given him had long sleeves. He didn't want Steve to see the twisted stump, or the scarring that traveled up past his shoulder, the grotesque webs ending just a few inches away from his heart. The sweatshirt would also cover the bandage over the stitched-up stab wound, and each of his ribs that Bucky could count with ease, feeling them with a hand attached to an arm that was too thin and bony. It was unnatural for someone of Bucky's size and stature, and he didn't like it. His legs were probably the less abused part of him. Also too thin, and his knees were bruised black and blue in places from kneeling and falling on unforgiving asphalt, but he could live with that.

After all that, when he pulled the same sweats from last night back on he looked worlds better. He was still too skinny to fill out the clothes, they still hung off him a little sadly while framing the jutting of his collarbones and hips and elbow. He was still a little pale and sickly looking. But he also looked clean. His hair hung straight now that he'd managed to drag a comb through it, the brown strands framing his too-sharp cheekbones but taking the edge off them. Without the beard, and without dirt and dried blood and tear tracks and terror smeared all over his face, Bucky could almost see a man emerging from the ghost he'd become.

When he exited the bathroom, Wellie was curled up beside the door waiting for him. She didn’t seem to be planning on leaving his side, ever, and Bucky was sort of okay with that. She was cute, and sweet, and warm, and just so different from anything he'd ever had on the streets. He kept his hand on her, stroking the soft fur on her head or ruffling the thicker stuff on her body, or patting her side. He knew how it felt to feel alone. Steve had helped with that a lot, Bucky knew he probably would've blanked out a lot sooner last night if he hadn't had Steve's hand to grip onto, Steve's voice insisting he was a foreign, unattainable concept called safe. He hoped that Steve had been able to help ease that same loneliness for Wellie, and she for him.

He slipped into the kitchen and took his chair again, the dog curling up on his feet. He would've gladly eaten pig swill if it was warm enough, but whatever Steve had cooking actually made his mouth water like a goddamn cartoon. Bucky had promised himself he'd let Steve ask his questions first, because he deserved it after how kind he'd been and because Bucky could only offer up two years, and he had to try and learn about an entire lifetime from Steve. But he’d looked so...different, in the mirror, he couldn’t help but ask just one.

"I feel like it's a little late for this, what with me cryin all over ya and being damn sure I know you and you taking me in and all but...you're still sure I'm him?"

Steve turned from the stove, setting down two plates filled with toast and scrambled eggs with what looked like chopped up sausages mixed through, and two glasses of orange juice, before taking his seat across from Bucky. His face softened and his eyes raked over Bucky’s freshly washed face; hopefully finding the maintained exterior familiar, and not realizing he’d made a horrific mistake.

“You’ve got a scar.” He responded with a wistful smile, reaching out his skinny fingers to trace the little white line that interrupted Bucky’s right eyebrow at the end. "Growing up, you lived next to this mean little dog, nastiest thing on the street. He got out one day; I herded him with a trash can lid and you caught him, but not before he left you with that little trophy. Mrs. Rodriguez paid us five bucks for our trouble. I've known you a long time Buck, pretty sure I'd recognize that mug of yours just about anywhere."

Bucky set his fork down so he could touch his fingers to the little scar. He'd noticed that. He had more, little scars and one or two bigger ones around his body. Didn't know where they came from. They could be from the accidents, from scuffles on the street, from whatever had happened to him in the first hospital, from being a person who just got knocked around and bled a little bit sometimes. He wondered how many scars Steve knew the story to, versus how many he didn't. He wondered how many scars Steve had, and how many he'd once known the stories behind.

It was such a perfect transition into asking about Bucky Barnes that he nearly took the opportunity to ask Steve how long, how it'd happened, what had happened afterwards, a thousand and one questions he'd wanted to know since he'd first heard that achingly familiar voice whisper 'Bucky' and give him a name.

But Steve deserved to know first.

"I promised myself I'd let you ask whatever you wanted before I started pestering you about that." He snuck another bite (who knew eggs could actually taste good when they weren't in mcmuffin form) and held out his arm, gesturing to himself in a way that looked so similar to the confidence and swagger he'd once held. There were a lot of differences between himself and the soldier he'd been before and the man he'd been before that, but Bucky Barnes had learned a lot from a certain punk about not staying down. Glimpses of him came out from everywhere, even after just learning his name and that he was going to be okay. The good-natured half smile, the quirks of his eyebrows, the easy movements of his limbs even sans one and with bruises and aches plaguing the others.

"So, ask away. Can't promise I'll know the answer, but I'll give you the best I got."  
\----------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------  
Part of Steve felt like every answer would give him a hundred more questions, but he needed to get them going one at a time. That was the only way he'd be able to get through all of this in one piece. Maybe it'd be easy; maybe he'd ask and Bucky would say he didn't remember anything and that would be the end of it. It'd be easier if he could just spend his time answering questions instead of asking them. He could talk all about Wellie and their past growing up together and maybe even a little bit about Bucky's tour and everything that had happened, but it'd still be easier than asking. Answering meant putting Bucky back together; asking meant having to remember everything that was missing.

"Okay, let's start from the beginning." That was somewhere, it was something easier than the big questions that Steve really wanted to ask. He settled for pushing around his eggs on his plate and taking a sip of water. Simple, easy, this didn't have to be anything more than that.

"Do you remember anything from before you went overseas? From our childhood, maybe? Even something little is something. The bit about the dog doesn't count, that's just cheating." He joked, smiling a little.

That wasn’t the question he wanted to ask Bucky. Their childhood wasn’t what he was concerned about, not primarily at least. He wanted to ask if Bucky remembered anything at all, but that felt too vague, there were so many possibilities for a question like that. He wanted to ask if Bucky remembered why he was afraid of hospitals. He had to at least have an inclination if his reaction yesterday had been any indicator. Even Steve had only ever heard pieces of the story, mostly he'd just seen the after effects of what had been done to him when he held Bucky through nightmare after nightmare when the nights were particularly bad. He wanted to know how much Bucky remembered that had made him so afraid, if he’d been alone and scared in the dark and cold, if he’d flinched at Russian accents and woken up crying and not had anybody to tell him he was never going back there. He wanted to know if Bucky even remembered where _there_ was, if he remembered that he’d ever left it in the first place.

There was also the question he'd been waiting to ask for almost two years, the question that used to keep him awake at night. It was also a question he didn't know if he ever really wanted an answer to. There wouldn't be a good answer or a right answer no matter what Bucky said. And that was the big problem, right? Because he didn't want to hear 'I don't know' if he asked why Bucky had left two years ago, but he was pretty sure he’d die if Bucky could give him a reason.

"You don't have to answer anything you don't want to, Buck. It's not an interrogation."

"No, it's okay. I want to answer. I trust you." Steve pretended it didn’t hurt when Bucky gave him that little half smile, the one that made people who hadn't met him before stop for a moment because it was so sweet and genuine instead of the cocky smirks one expected from a guy like Bucky Barnes. Bucky was a lot softer than he let on, once you broke him down enough. No one had broken him down as much as Steve.

"My last clear memory is from two years ago. December." So it was all gone, then. Bucky didn’t remember anything from before the very month he’d left; the years and any laughs and heartaches and victories they'd shared together were gone. Parents, siblings, teachers and report cards and broken bones and first kisses and high school graduation, all gone. Steve kept his expression neutral, something he’d perfected when people started giving him pitying looks whenever Bucky or even dating was mentioned after he’d left. Two years ago in December was the exact date Steve was doing his best to avoid more than anything. He couldn't talk about that, not right now. Later, when he'd figured a few more things out maybe, but not now, when they'd just barely started speaking to each other. Maybe it was selfish of him to not want every piece of information that Bucky was offering, but he could beat himself up for it later when Bucky wasn't watching him and trying to all but apologize for not being able to remember. Like he'd done it on purpose.  
  
"Before that, its...it's kinda like a pond. It's blank and dark and you don't have any clue what's on the bottom. But when something is- I wouldn't say familiar, I guess when something is mimicked or something comes back, it's like throwin rocks into a pond and stirrin up all the grit at the bottom so stuff can float back up to the top. And I'll remember something." Steve swallowed as he listened to Bucky’s analogy- he made it sound like with enough rocks, they could stir everything back up again.

"Problem is, I don't know where things are from. I think I remember when I experience stuff that mimics old memories. I remember a lot about... a hospital. Somewhere cold, somewhere far away. I’d remember when I was cold or in pain or scared, and they kinda fed off each other in a pretty vicious cycle." Steve managed not to react as Bucky took a shaky breath to steady himself. "I remember the hospital hurt me real bad. Someone laughin, needles and electricity shot through my head, s'why I lost it when that cop tased me and couldn't stand the cuff on my wrist and probably why I can't remember a lot of what happened at the hospital last night. I blank out and forget, when I get freaked out sometimes. I don't know when that's from. That's mostly what I remember, I guess I felt a lot more pain and cold than I did anything else during the last two years so those are the memories that came back. I don't know if that's from my childhood or later on."

"Sam. That's the cop's name." Steve said. they'd _definitely_ gotten off on the wrong foot then, if this was the first he was hearing about a tasing. That was something he definitely intended to have a few words with Sam about. Strong words.

"You had that before, the blanking out. It’s called dissociation, your brain does it because of trauma. It gets triggered when you’re in a stressful situation, or something calls up bad memories, but it can also sometimes happen just sort of randomly." No lies, that was his rule. If Bucky asked, he would tell, and talking about Bucky was always easier than talking about himself.

"You served during the war with Russia. You were captured overseas, spent a few months as a POW, but you survived. Coming back home was... tough for you, for the first couple of months. I don't know everything about what happened. There seemed to be some things that you didn't even want to remember, much less talk about. I know you were kept in an abandoned hospital, they...some of the stuff they did to you was torture, some of it was this sick experimentation. Right after the war ended, it got out that Russia pretty much ignored a lot of the Geneva convention. The prison you were in was cited as one of the larger- no, one of the main offenses.” Steve swallowed thickly. “I know they shocked you. That’s why you’re afraid of hospitals, you hated them after you came home because they reminded you of Siberia. It’s not real, though, the ones over here are to help, they’d never hurt you like the things you probably remember happening in that hospital over there. We did what we could back then, just took it one day at a time. We can do that again, Buck, we’ve stuck with each other through a lotta tough shit. And they weren’t all bad days. We had some great times, even after the war. I can only imagine how hard this is for you right now, but you were always good at finding something to be happy about even when everybody else told you you had jack shit. We’ll find something good again, I promise. Is there anything else you remember?”

"Yeah, I've gotten a little bit more. Since I met you. Mostly tactile, I don't remember a lotta specific situations. A lot about soup, I think...I think maybe you needed it a lot? You got sick." Bucky sounded like he was grasping at straws for anything good to remember. "I remembered the canvases, remembered your hands used to be black on the sides from drawing so much. I remember your voice. That you fought a lotta people. I remember you were there for me a lot. I remember we were close. Closer than I realized people could be." Bucky’s voice was dying out, and Steve was glad that Bucky was staring at the table and couldn’t see the soft look in his eyes as he watched Bucky frown and struggle for more. Even the scraps Bucky was offering felt like they could be enough for them to rebuild. At least he remembered something, anything, that wasn’t that Russian hell.

"That's definitely an understatement, me getting sick. I’ve got a full grocery list just for all the meds I need, there’s a lot wrong my body. You practically made it your job to look out for me when we were kids, I just made sure it was a full time gig. As for the fighting, we met on the playground after I took on five guys at once and you picked me up after I inevitably got my ass kicked. Told me I was a dummy, but you liked that I had balls. You were six, by the way. I didn’t know what the hell you were talking about.” Even given the grim situation, Steve smiled into his shoulder at the memory. Bucky smirked, too, and Steve really wished his heart wouldn’t seize up like he was thirteen again every time Bucky did something like that.

“I thought it’d be somethin like that. Being a soldier, there were a lot of clues. Noises that would freak me out, weird survival knowledge. I figured it was either a soldier, a doctor, or a Bear Grylls knockoff. Who I annoyingly remembered, but not my own goddamn name. Thanks, though. It helps, to know where it all came from. Makes me feel a little less guilty about bein so messed up, if some of it was from before. At least you’re used to getting me back with some pieces missing, and not all of what’s wrong with me is cause of whatever happened, when it happened.”

“Even if it was all new, Buck, it wouldn’t be your fault. None of this is-”

“You sure about that, Steve? There’s some time missing between when I was the guy you’re talking about and me waking up as the guy I am now. For all we know I could’ve done something awful before that accident.”

Steve clenched his jaw and took a deep breath, staring Bucky in the eyes. Bucky’s voice may be challenging, but looking at his face, Steve could see that he was scared. Bucky didn’t remember what a great guy he was. Hell, even his close friends had tried to tell Steve that maybe he had just gotten tired and left, because it may be easier to change Bucky into an asshole and a person who acted completely differently than it was to say he was probably dead.

“Well, you were always the one without any faith, and I always told you I’d just believe hard enough for both of us.”

“See, you keep saying things like that. ‘Always’. You’ve known me since I was at least six? So who are you? To me, I mean. My brother? Best friend?” Bucky tilted his head and stared at Steve so with such innocent curiosity that Steve almost didn’t want to tell him. Did Bucky even know that he liked men? Why would he, when he hadn’t even remembered his own name? Was he going to get mad?

“Not brother, no. We grew up down the street from each other. I’ve got a hundred stories about me getting into trouble and you pulling me out of it, then you getting blamed cause I looked too sickly to ever stir up trouble. Or the two of us raising hell together.” He had to give Bucky something nice before he dropped the bombshell on him.

“We also um, dated. We were, still, when you left. You’re 25, you’ll be 26 in March, so we were dating... about seven years, before you...disappeared.” He kept his tone light and conversational, but Bucky’s face still crumpled like Steve had just punched him in the gut. Honestly, Steve felt the same.  
\----------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------

“Dating? Fuck, Steve, I- I don’t know what to say.”

He'd figured out, or remembered, or just known he supposed, that he was gay. He'd known that for a long time and he hadn't really thought it was a big deal. He'd just never thought he'd had a partner. He'd figured if he'd had any close connections, someone would have recognized him sooner. Now he knew he'd been apparently been awfully hard to find, but it had been easy to feel unwanted in the streets. It made sense, though, that he and Steve had been together. Some of the flickers of feelings or memories, the way Steve touched him so naturally, the way Bucky didn't mind, even embraced it. They'd been together. Steve had known him practically his whole life and had been there for him through hell, and he'd... abandoned him. It was an accident, he was even more sure of that than his name being Bucky Barnes, but the fact that it hadn't been on purpose didn't remedy the two years of pain his absence must have put Steve through.

“Fuck, I’m _sorry_. I knew I liked guys, I just never- oh, god. I’m sorry, I’m so fucking sorry.” He wanted to make it better, wanted to grab Steve's hand and make him smile again, or he wanted Steve to hug him hard like he had last night when he was breaking apart and tell him it was going to be okay. Neither of those were probably going to help Steve now, though.

“You have no idea how much I want to remember.” He did, he so fucking did, he wanted to remember what it was like to be in love with the little fuzzball that had walked into his life and made everything stop hurting. He wanted to remember what it was like to kiss his hand in the middle of a conversation and make him laugh so much harder than the bittersweet chuckles he'd heard and how to wipe that look off Steve's face and make him smile like he deserved. It wasn't fucking fair. He physically ached, even more than the bruises and the stab wound, to be able to say he was in love with Steve. Steve deserved so so much better than him but Bucky was hungry, he was starving for everything and that included love and that made him selfish, and while he knew he wasn't good enough for Steve he didn't trust anyone else to hold him in high regard (to love him as much) as he did. It wasn't fair. Steve made him feel better than any food or medicine could, made him feel important and worthy and maybe not safe but at least like he could be someday. He wanted to love him with every atom in his body, but he couldn't fucking remember a god damn thing about him and that meant he couldn't love him, that he'd lost him before he'd even had him.

“Buck, stop. It’s not your fault, I’m sticking to that. It’s okay, I... I managed.” Bucky had no clue how Steve kept such a straight face, until he saw the little twitch in his jaw. Apparently even two years to get used to it hadn’t been enough.

"Two years. You... did you move on? Is there someone else now?” He shouldn’t be prying, and he didn’t even know what he wanted Steve to say. A good person, which was something Steve insisted he was, would want Steve to say yes, to say the heartache and pining were all behind him and he was happy and involved and Bucky hadn’t left any wreckage that couldn’t be cleaned up.

The part of him that hadn’t had a friend in two years wanted Steve to say no. No, he was hopelessly in love with Bucky, and as soon as Bucky got the memories back he could be in love with the best guy in the world again.

"I went on a few dates, nothing that ever got serious. It took me long enough to just be able to clear your stuff out of the apartment without it feeling like I was betraying you. And after that, I just- wasn't ready for anything yet. Besides, it wasn't like I really knew anything. I couldn't even be sure if you were alive or dead and it wasn't like we got anything close to an official breakup before- ya know, before everything. We don't gotta talk about it anymore, if it makes you uncomfortable. You're still my best friend Buck, that and this aren't mutually exclusive. I don't need you to try and be something you're not, not for my sake. Everything else is mine to deal with on my own time. And I’ll deal with it, even knowing you’re alive makes it easier to process everything that happened. We can keep being friends, like before, right Buck?”

Bucky swallowed and looked down at his plate. Steve’s eyes were dry, but their gaze had been too intense for him to hold.

"You got a beat up dysfunctional vet as a sorry excuse for a boyfriend and he finally beats it and now all you've got is a torn up rag doll and you didn't... there's eight and a half million people livin in New York, Stevie. You can walk out in the goddamn street and find someone better than me."  
\----------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------  
Steve could handle Bucky walking out on him, dying, being tortured, being taken away from him in so many different forms. He could handle him hurting, crying, even forgetting. But he’d never been able to handle anyone saying Bucky was anything less than the best person he’d ever known in his life.

“Buck, shut up. You were a hero. You still are, even if you don’t remember it. And you’re my best friend. It took me two years to find you, who knows how long it’ll take me to find the guy you’re talking about who’s supposedly even better.” Joking made it easier not to cry, not to kiss Bucky hard and yell at him about how wonderful he was until Bucky laughed and kissed him back, or at least believed him.

“So I guess I’ll just have to settle for you.”

Bucky looked back up at him and gave a smile; still tinged with sadness, but Steve knew him well enough to see the hope creeping in. Steve didn’t need Bucky to love him back, as long as he stayed. It hurt, but not as much as losing him. Besides, he’d never been able to let Bucky go. Like Bucky had always told him, he just had too much faith.

If loving a man who’d forgotten him was the price to pay for getting him back, then Steve didn’t mind if this was the time Bucky never came back to him.

 


	9. Sons and Daughters

“Buck, I promise, I’m okay. You’re killing me with the kicked puppy face. Why don’t we talk about something else? Let’s talk about you, okay? What do you wanna know?”

Bucky glanced up from the spot of mottled gray he’d been staring at on Wellie’s head, back at Steve. He wanted to know what kind of a boyfriend he’d been, if he and Steve had been planning on getting married. Steve had dropped this bomb on him that changed everything- after spending the last two years crushingly isolated, he now had to adjust to the idea that he’d been in a long, committed relationship. He’d been loved.

There. He did have more questions about that, about people who might love him.

“Do I have a family?”

“Yeah,” Steve softened and smiled sadly. “You’ve got a mom, Winnie, and three younger sisters- Becky, Dorothy, and Evie. Your dad was a sack of shit, he hit your mom, and then you. Your mom walked out on him a few years after we met. Your mom’s parents are both still alive, I don’t think you ever interacted with your dad’s. I know you’ve got some aunts and uncles and cousins, but I couldn’t tell you much about them.”

Bucky took a deep breath; he hadn’t expected so many people to have known him, to have cared about him. He had a whole family? Three generations of people to meet, to apologize to, to try and remember. Steve was hard enough, and now he had to explain to blood relatives that he’d forgotten everything about them.

“And... do they...”

“I called them while you were sleeping. Your mom wants to see you the second you’re comfortable with it. So do Becky and Evie, but they’re a little more willing to give you some time. Dorothy’s at school out of state, she goes to SCAD in Georgia, but she’s trying to get up here as soon as possible. Your grandparents haven’t called back yet, I’m not completely sure they know how to check their messages...” Steve smirked at him, and Bucky felt a sort of cold ache in his chest where he was sure Steve felt some soft familiarity. Steve knew these people, knew where Dorothy went to college and probably what she was majoring in, knew nicknames and birthdays and all the things a son, a big brother, should know.

“I’d rather do it one at a time. I can see my ma today, I guess, it’s not fair to keep her waiting. What did I call her?”

“You called her ma, like you said. Do you remember anything about her?”

“Nothing. Not about anyone. But I didn’t remember anything about you until I saw you, and then some things started coming back. Not a lot, but some stuff. Maybe the same will happen with them?” He desperately hoped so. He might not know any of these people, but that didn’t mean he didn’t feel the raw, screaming pain of not having his loved ones in his life. Steve might have seen the desperation in Bucky’s eyes, because his eyes squinted up just a little, like he was trying not to show pain.

“Yeah, probably, Buck. Is there anything you want to know about them?”

“I- yeah. Everything. But, I feel like they should get to tell me. I don’t know, I didn’t like finding things out about you from the cop as much as I did from you-”

“ _Sam_ -”

“I know his name. I’d just rather not meet them with this... secondhand knowledge.”

“Okay. What else, then?”

Bucky frowned as he tried to think what else to ask about. At least what else to ask about that wasn’t about their relationship, about if Steve thought Bucky had been trying to leave him, if Steve ever thought he was handsome, if Steve saw anything now that was even a little bit reminiscent. Wellie stood up from lying over his feet and shoved her head in his lap, and he acquiesced by rubbing between her ears.

He liked having a dog around, it made his head feel quieter and made everything feel less dangerous and confusing.

“What about your art? A saw some canvases in the living room. And I remember you being covered in paint sometimes.” He looked up to see Steve standing up from the table, grabbing their empty dishes. That was right, wasn’t it? He had flashes of color in his memories; grays and yellows and blues up his arms and under his nails-

A streak of yellow on Steve’s nose, a shriek of laughter as Bucky flicked a brush at him, spattering him with more blue paint, and then- and then....

Nothing. A few seconds of happiness, and then he was lost again. His mind was still that black pond, and the memories were too slippery beneath the surface to hold onto for more than a moment.

“Why don’t you go chill out on the couch, I can grab my portfolio and show you. Wellie’s allowed up, just tell her no if she’s making you uncomfortable.”

“You kiddin’? This sweet girl couldn’t make anyone uncomfortable, look at her.” Bucky crooned to the dog as he stood up, smiling at Wellie’s wagging tail. Wellie was easy, at least. She didn’t have to know that Bucky wouldn’t have ever guessed he saved her, didn’t remember the months they’d spent with her carried in his backpack as he trekked across Europe. It was easy to love a dog, he could croon to her and stroke her and that was enough. He felt guilty about not remembering, but Wellie didn’t even know. They could rebuild their relationship in the time it took Wellie to forgive him for being missing for so long.

He looked up just in time to see a fraction of the forced smile on Steve’s face before he’d left the kitchen to grab his portfolio.

Bucky sighed and stroked Wellie again, trying to imagine her soft fur and warm body dissipating all of the tension and anxiety he felt coiled inside his bones. She followed him to the couch and jumped up beside him, stretching out with her head leaning against his leg. Bucky idly scratched her tummy as he looked at the couch; it was an old striped mohair, cream and coffee brown, with some mismatched cushions and a thick knitted blanket thrown over one of the arms. Bucky tried to recall some scenes that may have taken place on this couch, but nothing came back.

Steve came back with a folder bigger than his torso tucked against him, dropping to the couch a reasonable distance from Bucky and laying the brown folder out on the coffee table before them.

“The stuff around the house is just what I’ve done for fun. I started as a cartoonist, here’s a clip from the first time I got in the paper. I still do that, but it was never steady money so now I work commissions, done a few murals...here’s one I did at our favorite pizza place.” He pointed to a photo of a wall in a small diner, painted with a mural of a New York street, seen through the bars of a fire escape.

“I like it. Why the fire escape?”

“The owner wanted something just a little bit different from the standard city view, something a little homier, he said. This is the view most people really have of the city, the black bars in the way. The fire escapes we both had when we were kids were tiny, we used to have to cram ourselves out there. We um, we used to use fire escapes a lot. Just to talk, or read, or draw, whatever. We weren’t supposed to, but I liked the view to draw and you liked watching me. We had to hide whenever we saw the landlord around, but after a couple of years our ma’s at least stopped giving us grief about it.”

Steve cleared his throat, disrupting the memory, and turned the page. More newspaper clippings and photographs of murals passed, a few sketchbook pages and paintings- some landscapes, shots of New York. Then Steve turned another page, and the tone shifted drastically.

There was a small drawing of the Statue of Liberty, but she was weeping. On her knees. A red peace sign on a white wall, but blood marred the image. A man throwing a grenade, doves fleeing and laying dead where other grenades had previously hit. A portrait of a preteen girl who Bucky didn’t recognize, with wild eyes and a book clutched to her chest. A soldier, with a noose of barbed wire. A face Bucky remembered, the face that had stared back at him from the mirror two years ago, before the dark shadows around his eyes and the harsh cheekbones, that face in military uniform with a gun discarded, another gun pointed to his head by a soldier who wasn’t pictured and stood somewhere beyond the edge of the paper, while Bucky extended his hand to a crying child. The statue of liberty again, drawn in white on black paper, her torch shedding light but not revealing anything as she seemed to search for something in the darkness. Some of the pages had been crumpled and then smoothed out again, or sported missing edges, splashes of liquid, or small rips.

“I did these during the war. There was a lot that went wrong, on both sides. I agree with why we went over there, we had to help, but... America bombed civilians. Shut out refugees. That’s Cota, she was a refugee from Mongolia we took in until her family made it over here. We still email them, she’s adjusted a lot better now.” Steve pointed to the portrait of the girl with the book. “She was... so scared, when she came. I was her only guardian when you were gone and she saw me get in about twelve fistfights over people calling her nasty names, or saying she shouldn’t be here. Probably not what a scared kid needs, but you were always the one who could hold your temper. And her aunt says she stands up for herself a lot better now, so... maybe I wasn’t the worst case scenario.” Steve smiled ruefully at the paper before heaving a sigh at the memories- so many days, fights, words, so many things running around his head when Bucky would give his other arm just for one.

“This isn’t everything. I got into my first gallery with this sort of stuff. Some of the pages are messed up because after you were captured, I ripped things out of my sketchbook. It actually got a lot of attention. A gay soldier taken prisoner, and his boyfriend left at home to grieve and worry and talk shit about the war? Tragedy brings in cash.” A bitter note had entered Steve’s voice, and Bucky noticed a twitch in his jaw as he stared angrily at the images before them.

“What did I think?”

Steve blinked and looked back at him, a soft expression of realization settling over his face.

“Oh, Buck...these were based on the things you told me. How you felt, being over there, how traumatized Cota was. Your squad members told me you only got captured because you went back to a supposedly evacuated town because you heard someone calling for help. I wouldn’t have made these if I didn’t know they reflected what people actually experiencing the war felt. I have nothin but respect for the guys who went over there, you and your squad saved a lot of people. But you hated how America treated the people who weren’t us, and you were in Russia so you couldn’t say anything about it. I was just you and Cota’s microphone. After you were captured, and then assumed dead, I felt like I had a duty to share the stuff I’d drawn. I couldn’t be over there to help, I had to at least let the people you’d supposedly died to protect know what you sacrificed.”

Bucky took a deep breath and nodded. It made sense, but it was just about the saddest thing he’d ever seen. Steve had had to try and speak for his supposedly dead or at least captive boyfriend across the seas, deal with museum staff and judgmental patrons and art critics and nationalistic freaks all while trying to simultaneously grieve for and spread the message of his best friend and lover.

“I’m sorry.” Bucky heard himself say the words without deciding to speak, but he did mean them. “That was a really good thing you did, it must’ve been hard all on your own... I’m sorry, I’m not good at this stuff. Lack of experience, I guess.”

Steve looked up at him from the portfolio, and Bucky realized they’d drifted closer as they’d looked at its contents. He noticed now that Steve smelled like some sort of soap, a scent he couldn’t name. Some sort of spice? Chopped wood? Vanilla, he smelled vanilla. A weird scent for a guy, but mixed in with the stronger one he couldn’t name, he had to admit he liked it.

His gaze flicked down to Steve’s lips just for a second when he smiled, before he forced it back up to his eyes.

“The hardest thing I ever went through was losing you. All the rest, the art and the people and the money, it never mattered that much. My friends matter. And even if I’d never gotten you back- either time- it would have been worth it. You’re the kind of guy where it hurts like hell to lose you, but it’s worth it for whatever length of time you’re here.”  
\----------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------

Steve was a bad liar. He’d just never cared to hide his feelings- if he was pissed about something, he wanted people to know, so they’d quit whatever stupid thing they were doing. Few people had been surprised when he’d officially come out, or started dating Bucky, because even when he’d been trying to hide his feelings he’d been terrible at it. He’d never tried to get better about it, he’d never seen it as a useful skill. He was an outspoken person, and Bucky thought it was cute that he couldn’t even keep a surprise date or gift a secret for long, so Steve had let himself be a terrible liar and not worried about it.

Now, he wished he was just a little bit better at deception. He was only about a foot away from Bucky, which wasn’t uncomfortably close, but was still close enough that Bucky could easily see any telling expressions that might flicker across his face. And how could they not, when he was staring at those blue eyes that never failed to feel warm despite their icy color, talking about how brave Bucky was, how much he’d sacrificed. And Bucky was thinking about him. Bucky had been the one who’d felt the despair Steve had tried to capture in his art, Bucky had been prisoner an ocean away, and he was worried about Steve. He was right, although Steve would never admit it; the grief and the hatred for the people hurting his love had felt like a bowling ball sitting in his gut, a weight he felt every time he stood up, a thick liquid that he felt like he had to pour onto the page through the tip of his pencil. It had been hard to get his emotions under control to tell people that this wasn’t just some hippie upset about war, it was the words of a soldier who’d sacrificed everything, of a girl who’d lost her parents and her friends and her home. It was the voices of the people who deserved more input than anyone on the war, simply passed on by the one who couldn’t fight, had to stay home, could only help by offering a home to the displaced and a voice, strained with grief, for the one who’d fought and sacrificed.

Steve looked back at the portfolio and turned the page, breaking his contact with that familiar soft look on Bucky’s face and the familiar ache inside his chest.

“Here’s another project, I started this after you came home. You thought I might have moved on, or may dump you since you were going through such a rough time and you felt so different. I started this project to try and help you get past that.” Steve pulled out a manila folder and opened it, revealing a small stack of papers, each one containing a portrait of Bucky. The man on top looked awful- the only hair he had was a bit of fuzz on top of his head, he had circles under his eyes so dark they were barely distinguishable from the bruises littering his face. He was thin, thinner than Bucky now, his cheekbones sharp and his skin sallow. The worst part, though, were his eyes. They looked unfocused and cloudy, staring at something far away and seeming to not register the world around him.

Steve felt equal parts sadness and anger every time he looked at this portrait. Bucky hadn’t slept properly for weeks after he came home. He remembered the first time he’d seen Bucky in the hospital, when he’d looked like this- so small, so sad and scared. The first thing Bucky had said to him was that he wouldn’t blame Steve for leaving him, he understood how different he was now. Steve had had to run to kiss him to shut him up, and remembered how fragile Bucky had been beneath his own frail hands. He remembered crying, kissing him past the taste of salt, promising Bucky that he would _never_ let anything hurt him again, ever.

“I drew a portrait of you every month, I was going to do it for a year so you could see how much you’d changed.” There had been a lot of downs when Bucky first came home, a lot of sleepless nights and morning visits to doctors that ended in tears. Arguments and fears and enough 'I don't think I'm worth all this, Steve' to fill the apartment. There had been good days too though, days where they could just laugh together or go out to lunch or even spend the afternoon on the couch curled up around each other without needing to do much of anything. Steve had started the project to show Bucky that, that his healing wouldn’t be linear, that he may have bad days but they would never make the good ones stop mattering.

Steve fanned out ten pages of portraits; each one showed an obvious jump in time as Bucky’s face filled out, the hair grew longer, the bruises and the dark circles and the thousand-yard stare faded away. They weren’t all happy- in one or two, Bucky’s eyes were red and puffy, like he’d been crying. Others featured that same haunting stare, but each portrait looked more hopeful than the last; in one, he was clearly holding back laughter, in another he was smiling from ear to ear. It looked like he was healing, until they reached the last two.

“He- I mean, I- looks worse in these two. Are they in the right order?” Bucky examined the pages like they would break if he touched them, and looking at his face Steve knew that Bucky knew the answer. Bucky had been getting haircuts by the time the last two portraits were drawn, and he’d pretty much gained all the weight back, but the progression of time was still fairly obvious.

“Yeah. Those were done in November and December, you started getting really depressed again when it got cold. You were held in Siberia, the cold and dark and wet all brought up bad memories for you, more nightmares. You weren’t doing too well.”

“The last one isn’t finished.” Bucky stated, and Steve knew Bucky was smart enough to figure it out, but Bucky just seemed...shell-shocked. Steve could sympathize, he remembered how he’d felt the first time he’d seen Bucky so beaten and pathetic. He nodded, leaning over to look at the final portrait in Bucky’s hands. Like Bucky had stated, it was incomplete, but the thousand-yard stare was back and captured perfectly on the paper.

“Yeah. That was the December one, when you went missing. I never could bring myself to finish it.” Steve said softly, staring at the paper held in Bucky’s hands. Two Decembers ago, Bucky’s hair had been in his usual style, neat and short but long enough for Steve to run his fingers through it. He’d had no bruises and no scars, he’d had that god awful look in his eyes and he woke up screaming even with Wellie sleeping on his chest, but he’d still been Steve’s. He’d still stolen an extra half hour in bed with him in the mornings, pouting when Steve tried to get up and wrapping strong arms around his waist, sighing into Steve’s hair when he finally agreed to snuggle for just a few more minutes. He’d still come in red-cheeked from Wellie’s walks, still sang loudly as he flipped pancakes in the air, still kissed Steve and promised they’d get through this winter, the way they always did.

“Are you okay?”

“Huh?” Steve looked up, Bucky’s soft voice shaking him from his thoughts. Bucky was closer still now, having moved closer to examine the final portrait. He was close enough for Steve to smell his own soap on him, vanilla and spice, and for him to remember that Bucky used to use something different, less identifiable, but warm and homey. He could smell toothpaste and breakfast on Bucky’s breath, he felt his eyes travel the familiar path from Bucky’s chest up to his eyes, his own chin tilting up just a degree or so because Bucky was taller.

“You looked upset. Do you wanna stop talking about it?”

“Oh. No, it’s okay, I was just thinking.” Not about how close they were, about how familiar this was, about how Bucky hadn’t been kissed in two years and how pretty he was and how much Steve wanted to hold him tight and make all of these two years of heartache go away, the way he’d been able to help chase away all the other nightmares.

Bucky looked at him with that expression that had always made Steve feel like Bucky was seeing right through him. For a second, time seemed to stop as Bucky held his gaze, as a ghost of toothpaste-breath ghosted over Steve’s face, as Bucky batted his thick eyelashes and his eyes dropped downwards, almost closed.

Bucky picked up the last portrait from his lap and slid it back into the folder, stacking the others on top of it. Steve let out his breath, slowly so Bucky wouldn’t notice he’d been holding it in the first place. He needed to be more careful in the future; if he slipped up, it would make this whole thing even harder on Bucky. He could ignore the pain, could pretend, he just had to keep a little more distance.

“You still thinking I’m worth all this?” Bucky was looking at him like he almost wanted Steve to say no. Not like he was hoping for it, but with a sort of resigned sadness that Bucky had grown increasingly prone to as they got older and life wore him down. Steve ignored it. Bucky had broad shoulders, and he’d rather crumple under the weight of the world than give Steve any of the weight. But Steve had gotten sneaky about holding Bucky up. He knew how to slip beside him, how to hold more on his own frail shoulders than Bucky would want, how to stare unblinking at even the biggest boulder, the entire world against them.

“Always, Buck.”  
\--------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------  
  
Winifred Barnes had five children, even if Steve and Bucky hadn’t made it official yet. When they were boys, Bucky and Steve had lived practically interchangeably between herself and Sarah’s apartments; after Sarah passed, Winnie had known that Steve was her boy now, no matter what happened between him and Bucky. She’d felt more pain than anybody both times Bucky disappeared- she had to grieve for a child, coach her daughters through losing their brother, and try and comfort Steve through his heartache. It didn’t matter that Steve was the kind who wanted to isolate himself when he was in pain, Winifred Barnes knew she could not let that boy be without a family.

Having five children meant having a lot of compassion, and meant having a great capacity for feeling pain. Winifred Barnes had been forced to become very well-acquainted with the two worst kinds of pain over the past few years- she’d had to watch her children’s hearts break and know there was nothing she could do, and she’d had to grieve for a child herself.

Sarah had lost a child, a baby. Steve probably barely remembered, if at all, but Winnie remembered watching Sarah grieve, watching her paste on a smile and try to be supportive for the child she did have, who couldn’t quite understand what had happened to his baby brother. She remembered feeling utterly lost and helpless every time she saw the red rims around Sarah’s eyes, her expression when she thought people weren’t looking, the way she held onto Steve tighter than she used to, because there were already a hundred things trying to take her other son away from her, too. Winnie had remembered tucking her children into bed at night for years after, the head count growing gradually, thinking about how she would never be able to be as strong as Sarah if something took away her babies.

Winnie remembered never understanding how Sarah had been so strong until she’d received the letter in the mail that changed the ‘M’ in MIA to a ‘K’, and her world had seemed to stop.

She had expected to feel depressed, feel like the entire world was weighing down on her and that every movement would feel impossible. She had been terrified of what her grief would do to her daughters- Evie had only been thirteen, she needed her mother to be strong and present while she handled the struggles of growing up, and now grieving for her brother.

Surprisingly, she hadn’t felt slow and heavy, hadn’t wanted to sleep the rest of her life away until she saw her son again. Winnie never knew how Sarah had felt after losing her baby, but for her, losing Bucky wasn’t so much a heavy depression as it was ice running through her veins, a razor embedded in her heart and twisting further into it with every beat. She didn’t want to sit still in a fog, it made no difference to her if she felt the pain while alone in the bath or while cooking dinner for the girls. She remembered understanding Sarah now; she cried late at night when the girls were sleeping, and let her cold cream take care of the worst of the damage. She let her jaw twitch and her eyes squeeze shut when the girls were at school, and she held onto all three of her girls with all her might, trying to piece all of them back together.

Steve had been more difficult to deal with. He’d always viewed himself as an outsider, and seemed to feel like he was intruding much of the time. Winnie had told him countless times that he was her son, too, but after Bucky had been declared KIA she’d seen Steve flinch at the name, and felt the razor in her heart deeper than ever at the realization that while Steve would always be family in her heart, there would now never be a day to make it official. The war had taken away her only son, and now what she had been sure was her future son-in-law.

But the worst thing wasn’t Steve’s tendency to isolate himself, or his anger, or the fact that Rogers and Barnes would never be joined with a hyphen. The worst thing was that Steve refused to grieve. He was angry, he made art and cursed and drank too much, but he was stuck in denial, and that was the most painful thing. Because despite the fact that her heartbeat hurt and she could feel Bucky’s absence like her very bones had been taken away, the worst part for Winnie was wondering- if he was really gone, if he was still out there, hurting, or when she woke up and for a few moments didn’t remember, then felt the ache and the memories crashing down again. She couldn’t stand that Steve had chosen to cling to the most painful mindset, the ache and the loneliness and pain, just in the stubborn hopes that if he didn’t move on then maybe he could bring Bucky home.

Even when Steve turned out to be right, Winnie felt a lingering uneasiness. She was thrilled to have her baby back, traumatized or not, but she needed to know that Steve could have been alright without Bucky. She’d felt pain like no other when she thought she’d lost him, but she’d held onto her family, focused on breathing, and started to believe that one day they could be okay again, even if they’d never stop hurting for Bucky. Steve had only showed pain, and no hint of recovery, and Winnie needed Steve to know that Bucky wasn’t the only family he had left, not while she was around.

It had been harder to grieve when Bucky had gone missing; it was easier to hope and pray and search for him, easier to hang onto the denial that kept you from moving on. But she’d learned how to grieve at that point, and forced herself to let go- she had three other girls to bring up, she couldn’t allow false hope to hurt them the way she could see it tore at Steve. Steve wouldn’t stop looking, he downright harassed the cop on Bucky’s case, he’d been insatiable until he’d been hit with a meningitis induced seizure and lost the rest of his hearing and nearly died. Winnie didn’t know what had finally convinced Steve to accept that Bucky was gone and start allowing himself to grieve and to heal- it may have been his own common sense, something Sam said, or the tears she’d shed when she told Steve that she couldn’t lose another son.

These memories had been inescapable ever since Steve had called her to tell her they’d found Bucky again- or, most of him. His left arm and his memories were gone, but Winnie would take any part of her son the world was willing to let her have.

Bucky had agreed to see her today, but Steve had said on the phone that he wanted to do it one at a time, that he was having trouble adjusting and needed time to meet everyone. She convinced Evie to see a movie with a friend, and didn’t tell her that she was going to have to miss seeing her big brother when he came by that afternoon. Her other two girls were grown and out of the house, but Evie was only sixteen and her brother was her hero. Bucky had been the one to sit with her through fractions and graphs, the one who’d thrown her over his shoulder like she weighed nothing, the one she’d been allowed to stay up late on school nights to video chat with while he was overseas. But right now Bucky didn’t need to be reminded of the big brother he’d been, the one who’d been so good at taking care of other people. He needed his mom.  
\----------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------

Bucky did not expect to smell cookies when he was welcomed into the new apartment, but he wasn’t exactly objecting. Steve had sent him over in a taxi to meet his old mom, and made sure Bucky had both their names, the apartment address, and Steve’s phone number both memorized and written down on a scrap of paper in his pocket before he calmed down enough to send Bucky on his way. He’d offered to come along, but Bucky figured he owed it to his mom to let her have her son to herself for a bit.

Winifred Barnes looked as much like a mom as Bucky could imagine. She was about half a foot shorter than Bucky, with brown hair cut to her shoulders that was both thinning and graying. She wore practical tennis shoes, jeans, and a knit sweater, she wore glasses on a little cord hanging around her neck, and had crow’s feet around her warm, light brown eyes. She’d barely been holding back her tears when she opened the door, and still she beamed at Bucky like he’d knocked on her door wearing an Olympic medal.

“James- come in, come in, make yourself at home. I made cookies, Steve mentioned you were thin, but- Jesus, you look half starved. Take a seat, can i get you anything?”

Bucky did as he was instructed, setting himself gingerly onto the red west elm sofa- vocabulary for different types of couches, he remembered, but not his own damn mother. He could feel the tension in the air- Winnie- or Ms. Barnes, or his ma- wasn’t quite flurried, but she did have a nervous, determined energy about her, like if she kept a stiff upper lip and had something to do then she could keep everything from falling apart. Bucky decided it would be best to let her do something for him.

“Some water would be great, thanks.” He answered, and let her disappear into the kitchen for a few seconds before reappearing with a glass and a plate of cookies. She set them on the coffee table before sitting in an adjacent chair, and seemed to relax when he took a cookie off the plate along with a sip of water, reassured that her skeletal son was getting some food in him.

“So, um.” Bucky began, and this was so much more awkward than talking with Steve. Not because he felt more at home with Steve, but because when he’d first started talking to him he hadn’t had these expectations, the knowledge that they’d shared years together and every second that he stared without recognition was as good as a personal insult.

“Is there, um, anything you wanted to ask me? Or maybe anything you wanted to tell me, stuff you think I should maybe know?”

“Yes, there is. Honestly, I want to tell you about every second of the past twenty six years, what a wonderful son you are. You’re so kind, James. Your sisters all adore you, and Steve thinks you hung the moon. Everything you did, you thought about others. You need to know that. How much did Steve tell you about us? Your family?”

“Not a lot. He said I’ve got three younger sisters, but I don’t know how old they are. He mentioned some other relatives, said my dad was uh, out of the picture.”

Winnie smiled sadly, glancing down into her lap for a moment before looking back up at him with a stronger will in her eyes.

“Did he tell you why?”

“Something about him hitting us. I’m...sorry.”

Winnie shook her head, her smile growing more fond as she kept looking at him.

“That’s part of it. You were only about ten, I was pregnant with Evie and George had a temper and threatened me. You put yourself between me and George, and he was a big man. He hurt you, and you didn’t bat an eye or flinch, you stood back up and told him you wouldn’t let him hurt me or the baby again. I took the three of you kids and we left that night. That’s the kind of person you are, James, you were always so brave and kind. More than anything, that’s what I want you to know, and that I’m so very proud of you.”

“Well, hey, give yourself credit. I must’ve learned it from you.”

Winnie smiled again and laughed softly.

“I’d like to take all the credit, but you’ve always had it inside you, James. I couldn’t have asked for a better son.”

Bucky swallowed, and now it was his turn to drop his eyes to his lap. He didn’t have Winnie’s will to bring his gaze back up.

“I’m sorry you lost him.”

Bucky, the old Bucky, had been such a great guy, according to everyone. Steve, the best guy on earth, had been so hung up on him, and he’d rescued Wellie who still adored him, and now his ma was looking at him with the kindest look on her face and telling him about a brave little boy and the son she’d been so proud of. The son she’d lost twice, and now had to stare at his ghost, because Bucky, the Bucky that was here now, couldn’t remember any of it. And not remembering was the same as never having done it; he wasn’t the son who’d stood between his mother and a giant. He was the lost ghost who’d crumpled just from being handcuffed, he wasn’t brave. He wasn’t the one they’d lost.

 

  
“James Buchanan Barnes, don’t you dare ever say that to me again.”

He looked up in surprise, his brows furrowing when he saw Winnie looking at him with fierce determination in her eyes.

“I’ve lost you twice already. I’ve grieved for you twice, planned your eulogy twice, told myself I had to be as strong as that six year old little boy who looked a full grown man in the face and stood his ground. You can’t ask me to lose you a third time just because you don’t remember it all. I was your mama before you could speak the word, before you knew anything about me, I can do it again until you remember. You are my son, and there’s nothing you can ever do that will change that.”

Winnie’s eyes were shining with tears, and Bucky felt a lump in his own throat as he looked back at her. He had no idea. Those two years he’d wandered lost, assuming that no one wanted him, when sometimes only blocks away these amazing people were grieving for him. He had no idea how to respond to being wanted.

“But, I’m not him. I’m not brave like he was, I’ve got- nightmares, and I’m afraid, I’m no soldier any more.”

“Is that true? Do you remember the police officer who found you?”

“Yeah, he’s called Sam. I tried to stab him, pretty sure your perfect kid never did anything like that.”

“Well, that’s true. But Steve told me Sam had another person to deal with after you got to the hospital. Somebody called 911, a young girl. She was all upset because she’d had some trouble with a boy, and some stranger came to help her. She told the officers he looked like a homeless man, who had only one arm, and had run off the boy. She was worried for his safety, because the boy had a knife when she screamed. Does that sound familiar at all?”

Bucky felt his face grow hot, and he shrugged. He hadn’t really thought about it at the time, he’d just followed his gut. He hadn’t taken the time to consider the risks, to know he was being brave, he just knew he was tired and he didn’t want some poor young kid being picked on. That couldn’t be anything like the soldier he’d once been, like the guy who’d managed to become best friends with Steve Rogers, could it?

“I mean...yeah. But-”

“But nothing. You jumped to save a stranger, that’s heroic to me. That’s what you’ve always done, James. The very first thing I hear from you in two years is that you got stabbed trying to protect a stranger. That’s heroic to me. And you’d never take credit for it, either. It took Steve and I two weeks to convince you to accept your medals. Not a single thing has come out of your mouth that you wouldn’t have said since the time you were six.”

Bucky opened his mouth, but Winnie shook her head at him.

“You’re still my baby, James. Don’t try and take that away from me again. I won’t lose you again over something so silly as you remembering.”

Bucky felt a lump rise in his throat, choking him and cutting off any rebuttal he might have made. He still felt like he was missing something, like he was an imposter and didn’t deserve their acceptance. But Winnie looked so sad, so determined, the pain and strength that only mothers possessed staring straight at him with the same unbridled passion that Steve had. It was breathtaking, it froze him and numbed his mind that these people cared so much, they felt so strongly, and it was all for _him_.

He nodded dumbly and covered Winnie’s hand with his own. She smiled again, but without the grim determination of before. It was softer, gentler. She wasn’t pretending to be strong now, she didn’t have to be. Bucky didn’t, either. The guilt was still there, that he wasn’t doing more, didn’t remember more. But it was a start- hands touching, sharing a smile. It was something. A beginning. For today, it was enough.

 

That was when the door opened.

 

“Hey ma, Ellen got an emergency call to babysit for double pay, we’re gonna catch the movie tonight.” A girl’s voice called through the apartment, but the speaker wasn’t yet in view of the living room. Winnie’s eyes went wide, and she stood just as a waifish brunette came into the room, a box of candy in her hand.

Bucky felt frozen again, but not in the good way when he was paralyzed by the light that the people around him seemed to pour out like stars. No, this was bad. That had to be Evie; his youngest sister, Steve said she was sixteen. He could see the family resemblance, but more important than that was the look in her eyes. They were icy blue, like his, but already they were wider than Winnie’s and brimming with tears. Okay, not brimming any more, the kid was crying just looking at him.

“Evie, honey-”

Winnie didn’t get to finish, and Bucky suddenly had about a hundred-odd pounds of teenager in his lap, candies rattling near his ear as she flung her arms around him.

“Oof- hey, hey, kiddo. Hey, I’m sorry. I’m so sorry.” Shit. Poor kid was shaking she was crying so hard. Bucky wasn’t sure where the instinct came from, but he wrapped his one arm around her and held tight. That seemed to calm her down a little, enough for her to pull back enough so he could see her face.

He could _really_ see the family resemblance now, almost more now that she was crying. He couldn’t help it, he was more used to seeing his own reflection in some kind of distress. Jesus, he’d forgotten how _young_ sixteen was. She looked like a child, even with makeup on, with her hair in those double braids that girls did now. It made him wonder just how young the sister he’d made grieve for him- twice- had looked two years ago.

“Don’t apologize. I ain’t mad. I ain’t mad, I just- I missed you-” Fresh tears started rolling down her cheeks, and Bucky tugged the sleeve of his shirt over his hand to start wiping them away.

“Hey, don’t cry, kiddo. Not over me. You’re gonna mess up your pretty makeup. You don’t need to cry, it’s okay. Is it cause I don’t remember? I’m gonna, I promise. So don’t cry, okay?”

Evie laughed breathlessly, helping him wipe at her eyes as she caught her breath. She looked for a moment like she had regained control of herself, but when she made eye contact with Bucky she dissolved again into a mixture of laughter and tears.

“I’m gonna, I’m gonna cry, you _asshole_.” She hugged him again, resting her head against his shoulder. Bucky was surprised at how natural it felt to hug back, keep a protective arm around her as she sniffled against his shirt. “I’m not sad. I don’t care you don’t remember. You just gotta promise to stay this time, okay? You gotta stick around. I know you don’t remember, but you promised you’d tutor me, and I got through bio okay but I have to take physics next year and you promised, you promised you’d help me in that class-”

“Hey, hey.” Bucky could hear her voice growing tight again, and tightened his grip reassuringly. She looked up at him, fear and tears both brimming again in her eyes. He smiled at her and nodded, steadier than he’d ever felt in all his memory.

“’Course I’m sticking around this time. I’m back now, I promise, you’re not gonna have to go through that class without me.”

Of course everyone knew they weren’t talking about the class. Bucky understood, though, how the small things were what felt the most important, the straws that broke the camel’s back. He had several small things that would go unnoticed for a while, then suddenly overwhelm him like nothing mattered except some inconsequential problem. Cold, that was a big one. He remembered sobbing until he got sick once, not because he was homeless and alone and in pain and scared and amnesic; but because he was COLD and the cold was in his blood, his bones, his marrow, his soul, and he didn’t think he’d ever feel warm again. He knew it didn’t actually matter if he remembered anything about physics. It mattered that this sixteen year old had a brother to sit at the kitchen table with her and guide her through something he’d already been through, shared strength and knowledge and understanding and comfort. And while he’d been scared with his ma, with Steve, Bucky had never felt more sure in his life that he was ready, and willing, and capable, of that.

“Don’t you worry. You’re not gonna have to go through it alone.” 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> if anyone wants to beta this...... I'm dying college is hard and I'd love someone to say that people wanna read this and motivate my lazy ass


	10. A Home Long Ago

Steve was distantly aware of oil paint smearing against his nose as he once again leaned too close to the canvas he was currently hovering over. He barely twitched when he felt it, just pulled back the necessary millimeter and watched the almost-scraping motion of more paint deposited on the canvas by his brush. 

It had been almost a week since Sam had found Bucky, a week since the scar in Steve’s heart had been ripped open again in the best and worst way possible. Steve remembered Bucky teasing him as kids, that maybe he just liked getting punched. He’d shrugged it off at the time, but in light of the past few days couldn’t help but wonder if he really was a glutton for pain. It hurt every time he saw Bucky. Every time he saw him smile or frown or flinch, every time Bucky didn’t remember or Steve had to remind him to eat a meal or take some medication, it all felt like his air was cut off and someone had stuck a sword through his middle. And not once had he ever wanted it to stop. ` 

Watching the oil smearing from his brush to the textured canvas always made it just a little bit easier to breathe. There was something soothing about focusing on how to apply just the right about of pressure, seeing textures change and build in his brush’s path. It made him feel like he could actually make a difference somewhere, and maybe a good one. Whenever he’d been making art for a long while, his body seemed to enter some new state of tranquility. His breathing grew slow and steady, his aches faded to the background of his mind and he forgot about his run-down, sickly existence and only had to worry about the line of chalk or pastel or paint he was working on. Oils were particularly soothing. The thickness made it seem more human, like he was laying something on top of the canvas, like the way he’d laid his hand on Bucky’s forehead this morning to feel his fever was still there, just as hot as yesterday. He liked the oil paints because sometimes he could swear he heard soft rasps as it spread over the tooth of the canvas, like the way Bucky’s voice had rasped in his throat ever since they found him, so weak Steve subconsciously held his breath just so he could hear him better. 

He tipped forward too much again, the cold oil once again smearing his nose. This time, he sat up with a huff and stuck his brush into his shirt pocket for temporary safekeeping while he swiped his sleeve over his nose, knowing he was probably smudging the paint more than actually wiping it away. His hand came away smeared with black, the color he’d been using, but there was a smear of yellow in the middle. He must not have cleaned the brush thoroughly enough last time. 

Staring at the yellow streak on his hand, a memory stirred. 

 

 

 

“Stevie, c’mere, you got yellow on your nose!”

“Buck! I swear to god, if you step on my canvas- leave me alone, some paint ain’t gonna hurt no one!”

It’d been impossible to keep the laughter from his voice even as he’d tried to scold, even as he darted through their tiny apartment towards the bedroom in an attempt to escape whatever Bucky was planning (and he was planning something, he could tell by the glint in his eyes and the mischievous note in his voice). He’d almost reached the door, almost met his goal of slamming it between him and Bucky and win their little game, when two strong arms wrapped around his waist and hauled him up and around in a circle.

“Buck! Pumme down, we ain’t twelve any more, shithead!”

Bucky just laughed again, warm and bright, and took two long steps to throw Steve on the bed, falling on top of him and pinning him with his body weight before Steve could spring free. 

“Aw, c’mon, baby, why’re you the only one who gets to look all pretty? C’mon, share.” 

Bucky had rubbed his nose against Steve’s then, smearing the streak of yellow even more over the both of them.

“Aw, c’mon. You had two beers, Buck, there’s no way you can be this drunk.” Steve tried to sound mean, but he was still smiling and he could feel the warmth in his eyes giving him away. He reached up to thread a hand in Bucky’s hair; it was at that perfect stage a few weeks after a haircut, long enough that it wasn’t overly neat, but short enough that it remained styled and didn’t have any overgrown locks sticking out of place. Steve gently scratched his nails over the back of Bucky’s scalp, and watched his boyfriend close his eyes like a contented cat and bump their noses together again. 

“I ain’t drunk on anything but you.”

Steve groaned and faked trying to escape to punish Bucky for his sappiness, but Bucky held his down and bumped his nose against Steve’s jaw, spreading more paint.By now it was less of a smear and more like a wash, like the light reflected off the buttercups they used to hold up to their chins as kids to see if the plant deemed them fans of butter or not. 

“Quit it, dummy, you’re gettin’ paint everywhere. It’s gonna get on the sheets.” 

Bucky’s eyes flickered downwards, and he pulled back, smirking.

“Not if you stay still, punk. Y’know, I don’t think yellow’s enough for you. Washes you out a little.” 

Steve’s eyes widened when he realized he had about five paintbrushes in the pocket of his smock, all covered in paint. 

“...You wouldn’t.”

Bucky was grinning now, and Steve shrieked and tried to kick him away as Bucky spread red over his cheek in what Steve was pretty sure was a smiley face. No amount of struggling would deter him, and Steve was laughing too hard to put up a great fight. 

Bucky craned his neck down to kiss him, but Steve jerked his head up and managed to smear the red from his cheek all over Bucky’s face. 

“Oh, _now_ you’ve done it.” 

Bucky went to grab another brush from Steve’s pocket, but Steve grabbed a red one from Bucky’s slack grip and attacked, streaking red across Bucky’s forehead. 

Brushes went flying as both boys tried to win this new battle, neither of them afraid to lean in and rub their faces over the other to try and transfer some of the rainbow smudges mixing across their faces. Steve was glad he’d been painting sunflowers for a change, rather than his usual Brooklyn skylines; the muddy colors wouldn’t have looked half as pretty as the bright green, blue, yellow, red all smeared across Bucky’s face. The sheets were stained, too, they’d have to throw them out. Steve couldn’t bring himself to mind as their laughter subsided, and Bucky wiped a smudge of green from Steve’s lip so he could lean down and kiss him. Soft, sweet, slow, Bucky’s right hand carding through his hair and the left intertwining itself with Steve’s, the paintbrush held there falling to the sheets to spread more yellow across the threads. 

“I love you, Steve Rogers.”

“I know, dummy. I love you, too. Even though you’re incorrigible. Come on, we gotta wash this off, California says oil paint causes cancer.” 

“California says everything causes cancer. Stay, baby, it ain’t gonna hurt us in the next few minutes, and you’re always covered in it anyways. Besides, we ain’t gonna have time to get cancer, Russia’s gonna nuke us in the next decade, remember?”

Steve scowled. “Hey. Don’t even joke about that, Buck. I’m serious. They’re talking about a draft again, it’s not cute.”

“You ain’t gonna get drafted, Stevie, your heart alone keeps you right here in Brooklyn where you belong.” 

“Right, and who else could I possibly care about who’s got big shoulders and can outrun a horse and no health conditions that would keep him off the front lines.” 

“Aw...hey, Stevie, I didn’t mean it like that. I’m sorry, okay? It was a dumb joke. I lied, we’re gonna stay here and get cancer in fifty years from puttin oil paints all over each other.” 

“...Promise?”

“Promise. I ain’t gonna leave you here alone. Even if-”

“Don’t talk about it.” Steve threaded his hand through Bucky’s hair again, pulling him into another kiss. He didn’t want to think about the possible war, about Bucky maybe getting drafted, about his one and only a million miles away wearing camouflage on a snowy hill instead of an undershirt and rainbow paint in their cramped double bed. 

Bucky returned it, but didn’t let it last long before he was pulling away, looking down at Steve and pushing the blond bangs out of his face. 

“I know you don’t wanna think about it. But I need you to know, okay? Even if they draft me, I’ll come home. Don’t you doubt for one second that I’ll come home. You and me pal, remember?”

“Till the end of the line.”

“Exactly.”

Steve tilted his head up and Bucky kissed him again, one hand stroking his hair and the other cupping his paint-stained jaw. Steve hooked his arms around Bucky’s neck and tugged him closer by the hair at the nape of his neck. Bucky didn’t break it this time; he kissed him again, and again, then opened his mouth so Steve could slip his tongue in, the warmth- a bit like the paint- seeming to spread from his lips all through the rest of his body. 

 

“Can you go a round tonight?” Bucky asked him in a hushed whisper. Steve blinked hazily, trying to form cohesive thoughts that maybe involved word comprehension and extended past _Bucky’s lips, Bucky’s breath, Bucky’s arms, Bucky’s sighs._

“Yeah, I think so. I wanna try, anyways. Don’t stop kissing me.”

 

 

“Steve?”

“Yeah?”

He turned to face Bucky from where he’d been tucked under his arm, blearily opening his eyes. They’d washed both their faces and their bodies, and Bucky was now in sweatpants and without a shirt, his face washed clean and his hair still damp from the shower. 

“I think that’s the most you’ve laughed, since....”

“Yeah, Buck, I think you’re right.”

“I didn’t think I’d ever hear you laugh like that again.”

“That’s cause you’re an idiot. I just... I need time. It wasn’t unexpected, we both knew it was coming, we got our goodbyes and she got her will sorted out and everything, it just... it’s my ma, you know? She was the only blood I had.”

“I know. And I don’t expect you to be fine, I know you’ll be hurtin’ for a long time. But it’s just nice to think that you’re gonna be okay.” 

“’Course I am, Buck. We’re always gonna be okay.”

 

 

The sheets were covered in paint, but Steve washed them anyway. He knew the color wouldn’t come out, and it didn’t. But sometimes he put them on during laundry day, and groused at Bucky for ruining them and insisted it was just for a night while the others dried, but they almost always left them on a bit longer, and Steve always held onto Bucky a bit tighter when they used them. He sort of liked the color that seemed to spread out from the middle, like it was radiating from their two bodies curled around each other. He liked the memories attached to it, the reminder that Bucky was still here. Not in the war, here in Brooklyn, waiting to grow old and gray and get cancer together from oil paints. 

 

 

 

Steve sniffed and rubbed his nose, then cursed as he remembered he’d just streaked even more black across his face. Then he felt a hot wet thing drop down his cheek, and then another, and then he was sobbing on the floor of the concrete storage facility he used as his art studio. 

It wasn’t _fair_. Steve had had _nothing_. No money, no family, a body that only worked right half the time, he had more than his fair share of obstacles to teach him some life lessons. Bucky had been everything. Steve had friends, he had work, he had hobbies and passions and his own life, but Bucky had made everything else Steve had been through seem worth it. And then he’d been snatched away from him. And again. And _again_.

His breath rattled in his chest as he sucked in a watery breath, but it was still nothing compared to the sound of Bucky this morning. Steve had never seen him so sick. It wasn’t life threatening, not with all his medications and the entire apartment’s worth of blankets Steve had wrapped him in before heading out, but enough to rip the hole in his heart even wider. Hadn’t they been through enough? They were good people, Steve knew that. He donated money to homeless shelters and helped out people he passed on the street. Bucky split rations with a stray dog for month and never complained about taking care of Steve when he was sick, which was often. They didn’t ask for much. Just a home and food on the table and each other to keep the bed warm at night, was it really so much? Was it really such a n outrageous request that something decided they needed _this_ to put them back in their place? 

He pushed off the floor and punched the wall in one fluid motion, but it was cinder block and didn’t do anything besides make his hand hurt like a bitch. Steve let himself sink to the floor again, cradling his hand as he sobbed. 

He should be happy. Bucky was okay, that was all he’d wanted, just for his baby to be okay. 

Except he _wasn’t_. They could pretend and focus on the positives, but none of this was really okay. Bucky was sick and scared and he looked so sad every time he didn’t remember, and Steve wasn’t sure how long he could keep pasting on a smile and insisting that he was sure that cough would clear up in no time, that the memories didn’t matter anyways, that all of this was okay and that what they had could be enough. Steve wanted to believe that, he really did. But he didn’t know how he could possibly have lived a life where Bucky wrapped two strong arms around him and made him laugh till he was breathless, and then turn around to see the ghost of his best friend on the couch barely recognize him and be just as satisfied. 

He sucked in another shuddering breath and wiped at his face, this time pulling his sleeves over his hands so he wouldn’t smudge even more paint over himself. 

He didn’t know for sure that Bucky wouldn’t remember. They had their first appointment with an amnesia specialist in a few days, assuming Bucky was well enough to go. The memories may still be there, they didn’t need to give up hope just yet. 

But even if he remembered, would Bucky feel the same way? 

Steve knew he wasn’t doing a good job of hiding their previous relationship. He kept laying his hand on Bucky’s forehead to check his temperature, brushing over his shoulders as he walked by, smiling too fondly at him while they ate or talked. Bucky hadn’t mentioned it, but Steve was sure he’d noticed. Bucky had always been so smart and perceptive. He was probably too polite to say anything, and Steve knew he’d never really rein himself in enough until he did. Right now he just wanted to keep cheating, stealing these soft moments with Bucky. He didn’t know how long they’d last, if Bucky decided to move out or if his memories truly were lost. He didn’t know what he was going to do about any of this, really. 

In a moment of weakness, Steve opened his phone and pulled up an album it had taken Sam months to convince him to stop looking at. He smiled as he scrolled; so many photos, of Bucky, of both of them, smiling or sleeping or doing dumb things. It was nothing special; they were nothing special, not really. They hadn’t pretended to be. They were getting by, and it had been enough. They’d had a life they they were living, it was enough. It was more than enough. They were cold and poor and anxious, but they’d been happy. 

“I miss you.” 

That was when Steve saw the time. 

 

He pushed up off the concrete floor and headed to the sink, grabbing a clean rag and his artist’s soap bar to scrub the black off his hands and face. Seven o’clock. He’d promised Bucky he’d be home by now, and it was an hour bus ride and another twenty minutes by cab home, plus he needed to pick up food. Shit, how could he not have been watching? Bucky had been sleeping pretty much constantly, but Steve didn’t like the idea of him waking up and wondering where the hell Steve was. 

He swiped the rag over his face one more time, then grabbed his bucket of brush cleaner and vigorously scrubbed the black from the bristles. He didn’t want to ruin the brush, but he was late and Bucky might be worried and he should’ve checked the time, or just stayed home and painted something small, or gotten Bucky a phone already like he’d been planning to. 

Steve barely dried his hands on his pants before grabbing his coat and dashing outside, typing on his phone as he did. He was going to freeze, but he’d warm up once the bus arrived, and he couldn’t bring himself to acknowledge the cold after thinking about Bucky frozen on the streets. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So, while I have tons of ideas for these boys, I'd also love to hear from anyone who's actually reading this. Any specific memories you're wondering about, or other questions, or things in Steve and Bucky's new dynamic that you'd like to see more of/learn about? Some things I must keep quiet for a while longer, other things I'd love to incorporate if people are curious for more random details about their lives.


	11. What's Lost to You

Bucky woke up on the floor, shaking and sweaty and with his stomach rolling in an all too familiar way. He didn't even remember what he'd been dreaming about. All he noticed was that the light had changed a lot more than it normally did while he slept, and Wellie was sticking her cold nose on his neck, and that if he didn't make it to a toilet it about fifteen seconds he'd have another set of problems on his hands. 

He made it in ten, collapsing to his knees in front of the bowl with just enough time to pull his hair away from his face as he lost all the food Steve had coaxed him to eat this morning. 

It was one of the worst things about getting sick - food wasn't granted, it was earned. Every bite counted, and shoving another cold greasy burger down his throat was a lot harder when his mouth tasted like bile. He didn't have a lot in him. Even once he'd flushed away the evidence and patted Wellie to get her to stop whining as she sat beside him, Bucky stayed planted in front of the toilet as his body spasmed with pent-up fear and revulsion from the memories forcing their way back into his mind. He focused desperately on the things Clint had told him- focus. Steady breathing, focus on Wellie leaning her weight into his side, on the tug of his hair thanks to his grip on it, on keeping quiet as he heaved again just in case Steve came in and he had to hide what was happening.

 

Bucky finally managed to get his stomach to stop spasming. He sat there for a while and just breathed, stroking Wellie to help calm himself down. She was still and calm, more than he’d have expected a dog her age to be. She didn’t even pant or wag her tail, she just sat and watched Bucky as he rhythmically ran his hand over her fur. It helped better than anything he’d had on the streets to banish the remnants of the nightmare, just feeling something warm and alive beside him. It also helped having a name and a place for what had happened to him, and a reason to believe it wouldn’t happen again. He wasn’t in Russia any more. He was in Steve’s apartment, wearing soft pajamas, watching snow fall outside in the dark from the bathroom window. 

Dark.

What time was it? 

He used the toothbrush Steve had gotten him to scrub the taste of sleep and barf from his mouth, then ventured back into the apartment to see if he could find a clock to check the time.

Wellie stuck by his side, a soft and warm and very reassuring weight against his leg as he headed back to the living room to see if Steve had maybe come in and just not wanted to wake him. 

He stopped in the doorway- the lights were on, meaning someone was in the apartment and had more than likely heard him being sick. If it was Steve, he was screwed.

It wasn't Steve. 

It was worse.

Sam Wilson was sprawled on the couch, remote in hand. Bucky couldn't help but feel a little betrayed when Wellie excitedly hopped up beside him and shoved her nose under his hand to be petted.

"Hey Wellie! Hey good girl! How you been, sweetheart?" Sam cooed with a grin, rubbing Wellie's head and patting her side as she pressed up against him for attention. He glanced up at Bucky, and the smile faded a bit when he saw Bucky’s grim expression. 

Wellie loved Sam. Bucky stopped being here, which was confusing because why would he make Steve sad? And his scent disappeared and Steve smelled lonely. But then Sam came. Sam gave amazing ear scritches and threw balls and smelled really _interesting_. Sometimes like blood or bad people, which made Wellie nervous, but other times like soft clean sweaters and spices and sometimes like sweaty trainers and fresh air, and he made Steve smile and tickled Wellie again and giggle while she sniffed him all over to make the most of the happy smell. Sometimes Sam took her on walks when Steve was sick, and he could walk further and faster than Steve, just like Bucky. He could also pull harder than Steve in tug-of-war, like Bucky. Sam hadn't saved her life like Bucky had, and he didn't make Steve happy all the time like Bucky did, but Wellie loved Sam anyways. Why was Bucky alarmed to see Sam? Sam is so great, and took care of Steve while Bucky was gone, wasn't that good? Why did Bucky not like one of her favourite people?

Wellie stopped playing with Sam and sat up on the couch, head cocked at Bucky in confusion.

"What're you doing here?" Bucky didn't bother with any pretense, asking his question gruffly as his eyes flicked around the apartment, then to Sam’s belt where his gun, and his taser, were kept. Except why _was_ Sam here? Bucky hadn't done anything to warrant calling the police, unless he'd cried out in his sleep and a neighbor had been worried. That seemed unlikely though, Sam hadn't been here when Bucky had woken up and he probably would have knocked. Maybe Sam had changed his mind about Bucky coming home. He must want him back in the hospital, back with doctors who’d hurt him and laugh at his pain. Maybe this had all been a test, and he’d failed by getting sick and not remembering, and he’d have to go back and Steve wouldn’t be there to save him- 

"Where's Steve?" Bucky's voice was already tight. Why wasn't he home yet? It had been hours. Maybe he'd just had a lot of work to do, or maybe- 

Wait.

Didn't cops also come with bad news? It was New York City. It was dark. Steve was small and frail and Bucky knew as well as anyone the shit that went on in New York. Was Steve okay? Had Sam come to tell him what people must have told Steve for two years? What then? Would he still be taken back to the hospital, grieving for Steve, would he just be left in the apartment without the person who'd brought him back? 

"Is he okay?" Maybe he was getting ahead of himself. Bucky glanced to Sam and then to the door, like he was hoping Steve might walk in or maybe making his own escape plan. The anxiety was rolling off Bucky in sheets. 

Wellie stuck her nose on the exposed part of Sam's arm, her signal to alert that something was wrong. She'd go to Bucky in a minute, but people were better because they could talk to him and fix what was wrong in ways that she couldn't.

Sam put his hands up in the air, palms forward. Bucky assumed he was trying to prove he wasn't holding anything that might cause another panic-induced stabbing.

"Hey, hey, hey easy now. Steve's fine, he got caught up at the studio and is just heading back now. He asked me to swing by and check that you were okay, and it probably would’ve taken me more time to convince him that you were fine without a babysitter than it is to just do what he asks. I knocked and let myself in when there was no answer, I guess you were... busy with that whole thing." He nodded back towards the bathroom, indicating he definitely had heard what was going on. "I'm just gonna hope you made it all the way, because Steve may have asked me to stop by but he didn't say anything about puke duty."

Bucky visibly relaxed when Sam gave an explanation. That was right, Steve and Sam were... friends. Steve trusted Sam enough to send him to check on his volatile amnesiac ex boyfriend. Once boyfriend. Bucky couldn’t let himself consider the finality of 'ex'. 

His face colored when Sam pointed out that he'd heard him being sick. He'd have to be quieter if it happened again, or Steve would hear and start worrying and start asking about what was wrong and trying to help him and look at him with that sad look in his eyes that made Bucky feel like he was being ripped apart from the inside. 

"Don't tell Steve." He asked, his voice much softer now that he owed Sam something. "He's just gonna get upset, and he's already worried enough. I'm trying to let him catch a break." He and Sam didn't have a lot in common, but Bucky was willing to wager that they both cared about Steve and wanted to protect him. Even if Steve wouldn't always choose that for himself. He chose to ignore Sam's quip about puking on the floor, hoping that letting him slide in a subtle insult would put him in a good mood. 

Wellie had relaxed when Bucky did, but Bucky still smelled uncomfortable. Was he nervous about Sam? Sometimes Bucky got scared around strangers, but Sam isn’t a stranger, he’s part of the family. Ah - she'd never smelled the two of the together before. So Bucky must just not know how great Sam is. Maybe she should show him, and Bucky would understand because he was the one who taught her how to “kiss”her favourite people, even before they'd met Steve and she'd been carried around in a backpack. 

Wellie stood on her hind legs, wrapping her front paws over Sam's shoulders from behind and licked his head happily. Sam yelped but laughed and scritched behind her ears. 

Bucky felt a pang as he watched Wellie mess around with Sam. She obviously liked him, and it dawned on him that now Sam was probably Steve and Wellie's closest friend. He was their support. He'd been here for the two years that Bucky was too goddamn stupid and cowardly to get himself identified and come home. He'd helped Steve grieve and he'd played with Wellie and had been here when Bucky wasn't. Bucky may have been here first, but Sam had been here when it mattered. Bucky owed Sam, he knew. But more importantly he owed Steve, which he hoped Sam would agree with and help keep his episode a secret. 

He couldn't help but wonder if Sam felt a little more than a friendly bond towards Steve.

He couldn't help but wonder if Steve felt the same.

He couldn't help but wonder if he should allow himself to feel jealous.

“Are you texting him? Tell him... tell him I’m fine, I was asleep all day until you came in.”

“That the truth?”

“Enough of it.” Bucky stopped to cough harshly into his sleeve, wincing at the ache in his gut as he did. He’d been coughing for days, and throwing up hadn’t exactly helped his overtired muscles.

“Shit, he wasn’t exaggerating that cough. Look, man, lying about how sick you isn’t gonna do you or him any favors-”

“I didn’t puke cause I’m sick.”

Sam was quiet, but his quirked eyebrow was enough to guilt Bucky into offering an explanation.

“I get...nightmares.” He coughed again, watching Sam grimace from the corner of his eye. “It’s not something anyone can fix, so he don’t need to be worried about it.” 

Sam pursed his lips and raised his eyebrow even higher, clearly displeased with Bucky’s tone.

“Alright, I won’t tell him. But you should.” 

Bucky lowered himself into the faded armchair and folded up smaller than really seemed possible for a man his size, his gaze coming to rest on the traitor of a dog now curled up with her head on his lap. Bucky was going to have to slip her some treats to sway her affections. Bucky didn't feel guilty about the stitches on Sam's arm, but there was something else he wanted to tell him. 

“I’m not trying to pick a fight. And- I wanted to say thank you." He kept his eyes on the ground for a moment, then dropped it in his lap and raised his cool blue eyes to Sam's warm brown ones. "For watching out for Steve. It's... a relief, to know he wasn't alone for all those months. Wellie's great, but I'm glad he had an actual person looking out for him. And thanks for bringing me back, I guess. I'm not really sure if it was the right move, but Steve seems..." 

Did Steve seem happy about it? Maybe in the hospital, when he was exhausted and in shock and Bucky was just sitting there shivering and not being himself. But now, he wondered if he were a burden. They'd fought, he'd had a panic attack in the street, he knew Steve still had painful feelings. Was he really happy? 

"He would've wanted you to do it, at least. I think. I still don't know if it was the right choice..." He trailed off and looked back down in his lap, feeling the guilt on his shoulders like the sandbags he'd once carried for hours as an odd job to make some cash. Steve was too kind to have wanted anything else, and Bucky loved being here and Steve and Wellie were great and he wanted the real Bucky to come back to give Steve what he deserved. But with Steve gone and the harsh reality that was Sam in the room, he wasn't so sure the old Bucky was coming back. Here, in the dark and the lingering nightmare and the absence of thin hands against his skin to comfort him, Bucky wasn't so sure that Sam shouldn't have just left him to die in the street.

\-------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------

Sam Wilson had been asked to do a lot of strange things ever since befriending one Steve Rogers. Most of these things were done with a varying degree of complaint, but no one could say that Sam wasn't the best friend anyone could ask for. 

Who else would march their happy asses down to Steve's apartment to babysit his amnesiac boyfriend (who may or may not have been a fan of stabbing people) for nothing more than the promise of a hot dinner and an "I owe you."? So, Sam had huffed out a long sigh, unlocked Steve's door, and kept his eyes peeled for any telltale signs of the mysterious Mister Barnes. 

It turned out he wouldn't have to look very far, if the sounds of retching from the general direction of the bathroom were any indicator. Well, he better have made it to the toilet because Sam absolutely drew the line at barf duty. Let Bucky do it himself, Sam wasn't about to hold his hair back for him no matter how badly Steve wanted them to be friendly. He was mostly holding out for an apology about his jacket, but he'd settle for a few guilty looking glances at this point. Moving over to the living room, he flicked on a light or two to dimly illuminate the room and allow him to find the TV remote. He'd learned his lesson the last time; if Bucky hadn't wanted to be cornered in the alley, then chances were he wouldn't want to be cornered in a bathroom either. He'd come out when he was done, and what happened then was up in the air.

Wellie was at least glad to see him. Sam had taken to kidnapping her in the mornings to be his running buddy; Steve had told him Bucky used to run with her, but Steve’s lungs couldn’t handle much more than a light jog. Sam appreciated the company, as not many humans were willing to wake up before sunlight just to run through Brooklyn streets. No, Wellie was always welcome to curl up in his lap or shove her nose under his hand, no matter how much Steve apologized for her behavior. 

The company he _did_ mind just happened to be standing in the middle of the living room and staring him down like one of them might need to jump out the nearest window at any second. He got it, they weren't friends. But as far as Sam was concerned, Bucky may have been here _first_ , but Sam was here when it _mattered_. If anyone had the right to be a little bit pissy out of the two of them, it was definitely Sam. All he knew about Bucky that hadn’t come from directly from either his family or his boyfriend was that he was the guy who’d left Sam’s now best friend heartbroken and sick and alone. 

He was playing nice though, that was what he'd promised Steve when he agreed to come over and make sure Barnes hadn't accidentally burned the place down or anything. Sam had amassed a pretty long list labeled "Things to say to Barnes if he ever shows his face around here again" in the past two years, but apparently that was going to have to wait until James was done interrogating him. 

The third degree sure felt different on the other side of questioning, he'd admit that at least. 

But those questions were sounding less accusatory and more frightened every time Bucky opened his mouth, and Bucky’s apparent anger was replaced by something bad enough that Wellie stopped her quest for ear scratches and started signaling Sam instead. Okay, yeah, Sam was starting to see how this might look bad to Barnes. Even if he was just in a pair of jeans and a hoodie, he was still the cop that had tased him. Not without good reason of course, that tase had definitely been earned, but the point still stood. Sam was a cop who’d hurt a traumatized guy- and beyond that, cops mostly brought bad news. 

If he was being honest, he'd really worried when Steve insisted on taking Bucky home. He knew they had history, but guys didn't just go through the shit Bucky had and come out on the other side completely okay. At the time, he wasn't sure how far Bucky was from okay and what he might do when there weren't a hundred people watching him. Plus, he’d really liked that jacket.

But not by any stretch of the imagination was Sam a heartless man. When Bucky surprised him by actually _thanking_ him, Sam felt his grudge ease. Not completely, because you had to be at least a little bit petty to be able to understand Emperor Petty Steve Rogers, but enough that he stopped glaring at Barnes while he struggled through his concerns. 

Well, Bucky was the one who brought it up and Sam still had that list waiting to go.

"Look. I'm going to be honest with you here man, you spent a long time gone and you never had to see what that did to him. I'm not saying that to try and make you feel guilty, I'm saying it to prove that I know what I'm talking about when I tell you that he's already happier with you here than gone."

Sam had been there, he had seen Steve work his way through two years of losing the most important person to him all over again, and he could say that someone as good as Steve wouldn't ever deserve that for what would be a fourth time. He glanced down at Wellie, scratching behind her ears where she liked it best. 

"Coming back home isn't ever easy, it's gonna hurt everyone more often than not. But you still have to do it, even if it means you spend the first six months dodging plastic bags in traffic." Steve had mentioned that Bucky served, but Sam couldn't know how much he remembered from that. Or if he even would have wanted to remember it at all.

"You do it because you care about him, or at least because he cares about you more than he does anyone else." 

Bucky looked appropriately guilty at Sam’s answer— maybe a bit more than appropriately, he looked like he’d just run over a three-legged puppy.

This was Sam's best way to extend the olive branch. Even if he hadn't gotten an apology for the stitches Bucky had given him, he'd still gotten a "thank you", so he'd mark that down as enough of a victory not to hold it against him forever. Maybe just a little bit longer, for appearance’s sake, but not forever. He'd been pretty ready to hate Bucky just because of the fact that he'd been the one to leave someone as good as Steve on his own, but given what Steve had told him about Bucky's amnesia and the poor state he seemed to be in right now he found it a little bit harder to do that without feeling guilty about it. Really, how the hell was he supposed to hate the guy missing an arm who'd had to live on the streets for two years without seeming like a huge ass? He definitely wasn't about to start competing in the Trauma Olympics against this guy, partly because he'd told a hundred other people how unhealthy it was and partly because he knew he'd lose. Mentioning it felt like a first step at least, just a little something to prove that they weren't all that different after all. 

"You care about Steve, too. You know Wellie. You don't drag a guy who stabbed you to a hospital to get him ID'd for a guy you don't know." He still wasn't apologizing for that. Sam had started it, and even if Bucky was thrilled by the outcome of their interaction, it could have totally gone better and no one would have been tased or stabbed if Sam had _listened_ to him.

"And you don't come back to his apartment, I'm assuming with a key, to check up on the guy who stabbed you because a stranger asked you to. Not when you're not on duty. So are you and him.... I mean, I- I mean, Bucky- the old Bucky, who Steve was dating, he was dead. Basically. There was no reason for you two not to... so are you and him...?"

Apparently, Bucky had taken his reference to serving, Sam’s attempt to establish some common ground, to mean that Steve had a type. 

He barked out a laugh, more shocked than anything, but still a little amused. He hadn’t really thought that Bucky would care to examine his and Steve’s relationship, but he supposed he could see where he might have gotten that idea from. Especially if, as he was suspecting, Bucky was somehow still attached despite his amnesia. Maybe he was just attached to the idea of being in a relationship, with no personal feelings towards Steve, but Sam was definitely picking up a hint of jealousy. 

"And here I thought you were about to ask something life or death with how somber you looked. We're friends, I promise. I don't know if he mentioned it, but we met because I was assigned your case. He was so damn adamant I didn’t close the case, we ended up seeing a whole lot of each other. Steve’s a good guy, once he stopped cussing me out for trying to break it to him that by all statistics you were dead, he figured out that I wasn’t half bad either and we were friends. I've got a key because I walk Wellie most mornings. Steve’s lungs aren’t great, and she likes running with me. It was easier to just let myself in instead of waking him up everyday." 

He reached into the neck of his hoodie, pulling out a thin golden wedding band that hung on a chain.

“Also, I'm a little bit spoken for. Just don't wear the ring on my hand. One of the guys on the force broke a finger and they had to cut his off to deal with the swelling." He smiled fondly at the ring, then a little wider at Bucky’s shocked- and pleased- expression. 

“Oh. Well, thanks, uh- for watching out for Wellie. That’s really nice of you.” Bucky looked just a little bit mad, and Sam’s stubborn petty side couldn’t help but feel smug; he was a goddamn wonderful human being, and even Bucky looked like he was having trouble denying that now. 

But now Bucky’s eyes were lingering on the ring Sam still held. His expression would’ve been unreadable for someone who wasn’t a cop, someone who didn’t do lots of volunteer work in vet rehabilitation, someone who hadn’t served and learned exactly how to school his muscles into that same mask. He could see past it, just a little. Bucky looked...confused, a little. Sad. 

Longing. 

"What's that like?" He ventured, obviously trying to keep up the small talk until Steve got home. Alright, Sam would give him that much. 

"It's good. Real good." He tucked the ring back into his shirt, comforted by the familiar weight, still warm from his skin as it settled on his chest. "We're not perfect, no marriage ever is. But some days I like to think we get pretty damn close. Me and Riley have been through a lot together. Don't know what we'd do without each other at this point if I'm being honest."

He was a little offended at the flash of pain and panic that suddenly sparked through his chest. That had been Steve and Bucky, hadn’t it? Too close for words. Their own people, yes, not codependent, but you reached a point, after a while, where someone changed you so much, made you better and happier, to the point where it was a little hard to imagine life without them. 

It was a lot harder to feel petty after thinking about what he’d do if Riley weren’t there one day when he woke up. 

How he almost wasn’t. 

Sam cleared his throat, looking up. He didn’t want to linger on that. But this was a good topic, relationships. A little risky, but Sam had always been an adrenaline junkie. 

“What about you? Any thoughts on marriage?”

Steve would kill him if he found out he’d even asked. But Steve and Bucky had been serious- they’d been dating for longer than Sam had even known Riley, they knew each other better than they knew themselves, Sam had been shocked that they weren’t already hitched by the time Bucky had disappeared. Steve had waved the question away and Sam had never brought it up again, but he knew there had to be a story. Only question was, did Bucky still know it? 

\-------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------

He’d been warm. There was gold light. He’d been stretched out across the couch with his head in Steve's lap, watching as he drew in his sketchbook. He couldn't see what Steve was drawing, just the gentle expression on his face. The red blanket was wrapped over Steve's shoulders and spilled down over Bucky's chest as well. Everything was warm and sweet and perfect. 

"Hey, Stevie. Do you ever think about gettin’ married?" 

He did. They lived together, they'd been dating since high school, he knew he didn't want to spend the rest of his life with anyone else. He doubted Steve felt any different. He didn't need a ring to prove how he felt about Steve, and maybe it was sappy, but he wanted that. He wanted the gold bands and the look on his ma's face as they stood at some altar because it'd be important to Steve to do it in a church. He wanted to throw their love in the faces of everyone who'd ever given them so much as a look for it. And he wanted to be Steve Rogers' husband, til death do us part. To the end of the line. 

"Yeah, I do. Not yet, though. I don't want to until everyone can, until it's legal nationwide. Think you can wait for me?" 

He'd smiled, he'd lifted his head and kissed him. He knew that Steve would stand by that statement, that until every state in America was free, he'd rather hurt with them then leave them behind. They might be 80 when it passed. They might be 100, they might never see the day. Only Bucky vowed to himself that they would, and soon. He'd waltz into hospital rooms without having to beg nurses, he'd have rights to be with Steve because they'd have gold bands they couldn't really afford on their hands. He'd check 'married' on his taxes, his ma would have another son, officially. That day would come soon, if he had to march into some government building and recite love sonnets until they got so sick of him they passed it. And once it was passed, he wasn't going to wait. Didn't matter if he had a ring or not by the time it happened. Didn't care if they were at home, at a protest rally, at Steve's art show because he _would_ be successful, in the middle of the grocery store. The second America would recognize it, he was going to drop down and ask Steve Rogers to marry him. Steve, oblivious to Bucky's little mental movie, had smiled back and stroked Bucky's hair for a moment before returning to his sketchbook. They'd been warm and safe and gold and happy. 

Bucky had been quite happy to just sit and hear about Sam's wonderful perfect domestic life. He wasn't actually completely sure if Riley was a boy's name or a girl's name, and he wasn't going to ask. Sam sounded happy, at least. The smile he wore when Riley's name came up was the same way Bucky felt inside when he thought about Steve. Bucky looked back down at his lap when Sam asked that dreaded question. It at least meant that Steve hadn't known, or at least hadn't told Sam if he had known. Bucky wasn't sure if that was better or worse.

"Once. I wanted to. He wanted to. The old Bucky, I mean. He was was sick of being shut outta hospital rooms, and not being able to check married on all the medical forms, not filing joint taxes, and not having a ring on his finger and not being Steve's. He was.... he was so in love with him that sometimes he had trouble sleeping, cause he'd miss him too much. I remember that, or I did when you brought it up. I remember sometimes when people start on the topic. Not a lot. But it’s a good memory.”

He wanted to thank Sam for asking that awkward question, because that memory was so sweet it hurt, like overly sugary food on your back teeth. But that seemed a little awkward, so he kept his gratitude to himself. 

"Steve wanted to wait. He said he couldn't do it when it wasn't legal across the whole country, so we agreed to wait. But I. I went ahead and bought a ring. Nothin special, we were broke as hell, just somethin’ to give him when I popped the question. And a little cherry wood box over in Austria. I was gonna do it the second the bill passed. Wait until someone finally took it to court, then drop down the second we found out it passed. I knew it may not even happen in our lives, but I wanted to be ready. I agreed to wait until it passed, but I didn't wanna wait a second longer. He could grab some daisies off the street and steal someone's tie if he wanted it to be an occasion, but I- he- was sick of not being married to him and was gonna change it as soon as possible. Didn't matter if it was at home, in the street, in the supermarket, I was gonna drop down on one knee and ask him the second it passed. I know it's not the most romantic proposal, but.... I thought he would've liked it." 

Bucky realized his voice had gone soft and cleared his throat, looking back up at Sam.

"Don't tell him any of that. I don't think he ever found out about the ring, and he can't know I remembered asking him in the first place if he ever wanted to. It's not fair to let him know how it almost happened, cause I'm not the same guy that did all that for him. Maybe I will be, by the time that law passes, and he can get married to the man he deserves, cause... well, you're probably the only person in the world who'll agree that it sure as hell isn't me."

Sam was looking at him with clear brown eyes that were all too perceptive for Bucky’s liking, quiet and a little too understanding. 

"I'm just the babysitter here, not my job to tell him anything you say to me, that's all you. I might have to let him know that you thought we were together though, he always gets a kick out of that. You ever want to experience a guy aggressively holding your hand, just walk Steve near a group of protesters. You wouldn't think it's possible for him to have a grip that strong with how small his hands are.”

Bucky laughed, but it still hurt in his lungs. And not from his illnesses or injuries. He knew all too well about Steve's grip. It was one of the best parts of him- he felt so soft and small and delicate, but he'd squeeze hard enough to force all the little broken pieces back together. The old Bucky had loved him for it. The new Bucky... wasn’t sure he could love yet, but he admired Steve for it. He thought it was great, and it made him feel whole and warm again after spending so long shattered apart. 

"And if we're being honest here,” Sam continued, “I think that's a pretty bad way to think of any relationship. There are days when I don't think I'll ever do enough good to deserve Riley, and I'm sure Steve thought the same thing about you, too.I don't know you, I don't know who you were before, or how you've changed now, but I do know that anyone Steve would go this far for has to be worth something. If you spend your life waiting to be good enough for him then you're not ever gonna say anything." Sam looked like the words tasted a little bad in his mouth, like assuring Bucky was the last thing he’d wanted to do today. The petty side of Bucky preened a little at that, even when Sam tacked on a quick, "That's just my fellow man opinion though, the best friend opinion is saying something much different."

Bucky raised a an eyebrow wearily and smirked, though his heart wasn’t in it.

"It's not the same. I mean, I don't love him. I _can't_ , I'd like to, it kills me that I can't but... I can't. I don't know him enough to love him. How can you love a person when you don't even know their birthday or their favorite color? I know that if there's any one person in the world who's worth loving it's him, he's the best person in the whole world and it _hurts_ that I can't feel anything for him like that, but I can't. The old Bucky did. Does. He's still in here, kinda. And he's as in love with Steve as he deserves, and as soon as I get enough pieces of him back he'll tell him. Steve...everything he's done is for the old Bucky, not me. I'm just a placeholder, until I can get back the man he deserves. I'm not waiting to be good enough. I mean I am, but mostly I'm waiting until there is something to tell him. Cause I can't love him right now, but I'm gonna do whatever it takes to get back to the Bucky who does." 

But this was a grim topic. Bucky tried to lighten up by glancing up, giving Sam half a smile and quirking his eyebrows. 

"Why don't we hear the best friend's advice? Somethin’ along the lines of ‘paws off, motherfucker?'"

“Yeah. Something like that.” Sam agreed without any malice. Bucky didn’t like the look he was being fixed with. Sam looked not just sad, but somehow resigned, like Bucky had said something too heavy for even him to deal with. 

The rattle of the doorknob was Bucky’s rescue. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> are u seein the seed cause the seed has been PLANTED


	12. Chapter 12

Steve opened the door with his feet, his arms absolutely laden with plastic bags that wafted the mouthwatering scent of Chinese food through the entirety of the cramped apartment. Bucky might have thrown up just minutes ago, but that didn’t stop him from looking at those plastic bags in the same hungry way he used to look at dumpsters or fires inside old oil barrels. 

“Hi, guys, I’m so sorry I’m late, but I brought food to make up for it.”

“Mr. Nosh?” Bucky asked hopefully, trying to get a peek at the logo on the plastic baggies Steve was carrying.

Wellie leaped off the couch, and Bucky was concerned for a moment she was going to knock Steve over in excitement; his mouth dropped when instead he handed her a bag, and she took it in her mouth and set it on the coffee table. Bucky was about to ask where she learned how to do that, when he looked up and saw both Steve and Sam staring at him with wide eyes. 

“What?”

“You said... there’s about 8000 Chinese takeout places in New York, Buck. You remember our place?” Steve looked stupidly hopeful, and Bucky was almost relieved to turn his gaze to Sam’s more guarded, less desperate expression.

“You remember anything about it?” Sam asked gravely, almost like he didn’t want Bucky to remember.

“Uh- the food’s good. Nothing else.”

It was actually a good thing. Bucky wasn’t sure he wouldn’t have another breakdown if he could remember some random Chinese takeout and not the guy he’d once intended to marry.

“Yeah, you used to like it, Buck.” Steve had come farther into the room, close enough for Bucky to see warmth in his smile and eyes that pretty much eliminated his need for the blanket on his chair. Steve set his remaining bag of food beside the first and lay the back of his hand on Bucky’s forehead, checking his temperature. 

“Sam, did you not check on him? Bucky, you’re still hot. Have you been drinking water?”

Bucky only realized that he’d instinctively closed his eyes and leaned into Steve’s hand when he found himself pulling back to catch Sam’s response. 

“Nah, man, I figure a grown man can tell if he’s got a fever or not.” 

“I told you, the doctor said he had to have someone else check because his standards are low, and he was still pretty out of it this morning.”

“Steve, ‘m fine.” Bucky interjected, giving him a tired smile that he wasn’t really feeling just to watch that wrinkle between Steve’s eyebrows smooth out just a little. “I’m sorry I forgot to drink a lot, I’ll get some water.”

“No, it’s okay—”

“Steve. I’m fine. I gotta move at some point, or I’ll get a blood clot. It’s okay, promise.”

He didn’t appreciate Sam’s smirk, but he decided to let it go and just enjoy his small victory when Steve sat down on the couch. 

Wellie followed him to the kitchen— oh, so now she decided to be loyal. Bucky frowned disapprovingly at her, but still rubbed her ears before grabbing a glass of water. Now that he’d stood up, he could at least kind of acknowledge that Steve’s concerns may have been the tiniest bit valid; he felt shaky and weak and lightheaded. It wasn’t anything he hadn’t dealt with on the streets, but being inside a heated apartment in clean clothes reminded him that is wasn’t considered normal or acceptable to feel this way. 

He appreciated that Wellie curled up on the chair with him this time instead of on the couch with Sam, but he couldn’t help but covet Sam’s spot beside Steve. He also couldn’t help but stare at Steve. He looked pale, maybe a little drawn, and Bucky was pretty sure his eyes were puffy and red. He’d lived on New York streets for two years, he knew what the cold did to your face, and it didn’t quite look like that. 

Steve didn’t acknowledge his staring, but he did start when Sam stood up. 

“You’re heading home?”

“Yeah, you two got this. Me and Barnes had our feelings jam, now I’ve got to get home to the wife.”

“Bag on the left is for you and Riley. I got you guys an extra pint of noodles.”

“And that is why I knew it would be worth it to come play babysitter. Now if you will excuse me, I have some noodles to devour. Rogers, I’ll be by in the morning to grab my running buddy. Barnes, don’t stab any more people and for the love of god, eat something.”

 

The silence somehow hung heavier after the door closed behind Sam. 

 

Steve was quiet for a while, eating his food and watching Bucky figure out how to balance his carton and eat with only one hand— it was harder than it looked, especially with not much meat on his bones to help with balance and shaky limbs messing with what he did manage to establish. Steve wasn’t watching with pity, though; there was a bright determination in his eyes, like if Bucky could just get this one meal in him then everything would be okay. 

“Y’know, this is the most I’ve seen you eat even since weeks before you...” He didn’t finish the sentence, and Bucky actually found himself thankful for it. Disappeared? Went missing?

Left?

“It’s good food. Your cooking is great too, I mean, I guess it’s just- appetite’s coming back, I guess.”

Steve smiled, and he did a great job of making it look like he wasn’t exhausted and hadn’t been crying earlier. 

“Sam said you guys talked? I know you don’t like him, and I agree he could’ve handled it better, but he still found you and brought you back, and most cops wouldn’t have even remembered your face- he’s a good guy, Buck, he’s done a lot for me and Wellie-”

“You don’t gotta defend him, Steve. We talked. He’s... we’re not best friends, but I’m really glad he was there for you. He seems like a guy who might actually deserve to be your best friend. And he’s not totally stupid, he had some decent stuff to say.”

It was worth swallowing his pride for that to see the smile Steve gave him. 

“Thank you, Buck. It’s probably dumb, but I’m glad you guys don’t hate each other. I always told him how much he woulda loved you, especially— especially when he started saying, y’know, the usual reasons people disappeared like you did. I mean, you’re just a great guy, and I’m glad you let him see that side of you instead of what he saw when you were scared out of your mind. And I always told him I was the troublemaker.”

Bucky smiled at him, but it wasn’t convincing. He lowered his eyes, meeting Wellie’s large brown ones as she begged silently for some of his Chinese food from his lap. 

Well, at least it was a change of subject. 

“How’d Wellie get so well behaved? With the bags, and she’s not trying to get my food or anything...” He stopped to cough, closed mouth, mostly just struggling against the heaviness in his lungs more than actually trying to clear his throat. 

Steve waited until he was done to speak, and while he stayed still, his body language was way too tense for him not to be worried. Bucky tried to ignore it, shoving another forkful of noodles into his mouth to try and reassure him that he was okay.

“Well, we were getting her trained to work as a support animal for you. She’s smart, and you carrying her around in your pack got her socialized really well at a young age. She was almost certified before you disappeared.”

So that was the word they were going to use.

“Buck, that cough is getting worse. Remind me to make you a hot compress tonight, alright?”

Bucky nodded wearily. He had a feeling it would be more of a comfort to Steve than himself, but Steve deserved comfort, too.

“Alright. Listen, Steve... are you okay? I know this can’t be easy, and... I don’t know. I’m sorry. But if there’s anything I can do, I’d like to. You’ve been working your ass off, and you’re not invincible.”

Steve bowed his head to laugh; Bucky recognized the note of pain in it. 

“That was pretty much your catchphrase, you know. ‘You’re not invincible, Rogers.’ I’m okay, Bucky, promise.”

“Bullshit.”

Bucky felt as surprised at himself as Steve looked; he hadn’t consciously spoken, it had just come out. 

“What?”

He might as well go with it.

“I can see you were crying, Steve. I know the difference between crying and windburn.” 

He saw Steve wince again at the reference to what Bucky had spent the last two years living through, but shook his head roughly. 

“This ain’t about me, Steve. I asked if you were okay, if there was anything I could do for you, instead of you running yourself into the ground trying to make up for two years of something that wasn’t your fault.”

He was pretty sure that Steve had to stop himself from arguing back, judging by the look on his face and the slow breath he took. When Steve did meet his eyes again, he looked even smaller than he really was, shy and fragile. Despite him being over half a foot shorter and around twenty pounds lighter, even at Bucky’s current emaciated state, he didn’t generally give the impression of being small or breakable. Bucky felt unnerved, seeing him like that. 

“Think you can sit by me on the couch? I don’t think you ever used that chair, I feel like we’re in a therapist’s office again like this.”

Bucky laughed, for real this time, and moved himself and his Chinese food to the couch to sit by Steve. Wellie followed and stretched herself out with her hind legs in Bucky’s lap and her head in Steve’s, obviously determined to keep them seated close to each other, the way they were supposed to be. 

“Thanks.” Steve said gently. He didn’t shift closer or anything, just leaned back into the couch and shoved another bite in his mouth. Still, Bucky felt comforted, like the air had been starched or something and now it was suddenly easier to breathe. 

“Hey Steve. Got a question.”

“Hm?”

“Did we have like, a show or something? Like, somethin we always watched together.” 

Steve chewed and swallowed, taking the time to consider the question. 

“We had a couple, yeah. You don’t remember any, do you?”

“... I don’t know. What were they?”

“You made me watch Friends a lot, but it wasn’t my favorite. You watched endless documentaries, too, about space and sharks and anything that Netflix decided to add. And Star Trek, and the X files, you loved anything sci-fi. How It’s Made, we both really liked, especially when I was sick. It’s calming, and it helped your anxiety a lot after you came home. I made you watch Bob Ross, and we liked a lot of newer sitcoms. Modern Family, Parks and Rec... you don’t know any of these, do you?”

Bucky shook his head, feeling guilt and shame pool in his gut, and more of the same feelings at his investment in something as dumb as what kind of tv shows they used to watch. 

“Well, it’ll be fun to see you laugh at all the dumb jokes again. You want to watch something?” It was the first time that Bucky had heard that hopeful note in Steve’s voice for something that wasn’t a memory he couldn’t supply. 

“Can we? What would he want to watch?”

“You— huh. Takeout food, Thursday night, you being sick... I think it’s a Friends night. You remember any of it?”

“No.”

“Good, the first seasons are the best ones.” 

Bucky didn’t particularly care about Friends, but he loved the happy, satisfied note in Steve’s voice. And something about the muted colors and bad audio quality to the first episode that Steve played felt familiar. Bucky liked that it was set in New York, with more twenty-something year olds who didn’t know what the hell they were doing. He liked Phoebe, he liked the purple walls and picture frame around the peephole in the door. 

He liked when Steve asked if Bucky was okay sharing a blanket, and the thick hand-crocheted red one that Steve spread over the two of them as the episodes ran on autoplay. 

He liked when Steve fell asleep on the crook of his shoulder, and liked curling in around him and falling asleep in a warm little bundle of Bucky and Steve and Wellie and the lovingly made blanket on their old couch in their shared apartment in Brooklyn.  
\--------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------

Steve woke up warmer than he remembered being in a long, long time. It wasn’t like he woke up freezing, like he used to when he lived with just his ma; Wellie was a big cuddler, and Steve could always feel all his extremities when he woke up now. But there was this sort of internal warmth that was harder to describe, but still missing; that feeling that there was a big gaping hole in you, that a cold breeze might run through and prevent even fur and blankets from really sharing their warmth all the way into you. 

Something about Bucky forced that warmth all the way into his bones, made him feel full of something instead of achingly empty, for the first time in a long time. He knew this shouldn’t have happened, he shouldn’t have let himself pass out on Bucky. Buck had probably been incredibly uncomfortable about it, but he was too— what? Guilty? Indebted? To feel like he had a right to shake Steve off.

Steve wasn’t the only one with an unhealthy martyr complex.

He did take a moment before extracting himself, though; a moment to shut his eyes and try to absorb as much of this warmth as he could, enough to be able to carry around with him. He breathed in slowly, smelling the familiar fabric softener from the blanket and Chinese food and Bucky; all the things he’d wished he’d been able to have, just one last time, when Bucky—

Wasn’t here. 

He was careful as hell when he pulled away, and tucked the blanket firmly around him again to try and make up for any loss of heat; Wellie raised her head, staring at him with bright eyes that seemed to call him out, like she couldn’t understand why Steve wasn’t kissing Bucky awake, like he used to.

Like he was supposed to. 

That was when Steve realized that the reason he’d woken up was because he’d heard the key in the lock; because Sam had come in to grab Wellie for a morning run, like he often did. 

Steve stood stock still, staring helplessly at Sam as his friend simply raised his eyebrow at the scene before him. 

“I think I’ll skip my run for the day.” Sam exhaled the words, like he didn’t have the energy for both a sigh and a conversation. “Why don’t you and me go for a walk.” 

Steve grabbed Wellie’s lead and his coat, hat, and scarf from the hooks by the door (noticing for the millionth time the empty one, feeling an odd surge of excitement at being to hang Bucky’s coat and hat back on it) and they slipped outside into the bitter street, still gray and dark with the sun nowhere to be seen. 

Sam didn’t say anything at first; the two of them watched Wellie sniff around excitedly, taking in all the hundreds of things that had happened on the street since she’d been out yesterday. Steve mumbled the direction they should walk in, and it wasn’t until the wind had numbed both Steve’s cheeks and the fear inside him that Sam spoke up.

“So are you gonna tell me about it or bottle it up like you try to do with everything else you miss about him?”

Steve had to look up at the sky for a moment to control the struggling feeling in his chest; Sam had a way of coming out with hard truths in a painfully concise manner, but it was one of Steve’s favorite things about him. Sam took life as it came and held it accountable for everything it dealt him. 

“I think we just fell asleep. I mean, I know I did. He probably just felt too guilty to move. It was a long day, and I know he feels guilty about all of this even though I’ve told him not to be, so he probably just suffered silently. That’s all. I’ll apologize when he gets up, but nothing happened. I’d never do that to him.”

“Right. Cause that would be just horrible if somethin’ happened.”

“Sam, he didn’t remember his own name, there’s no way he remembers anything about me or us, I couldn’t do that to—”

“You sure about that?”

“What?”

Sam had a natural warmth that never made him seem too harsh to Steve, but he was as serious now as Steve had seen him even in those first days, even when he woke up in the hospital after the seizure. The look on his face stopped Steve, even Wellie tilted her head and pricked her ears to try and decipher why this new tension had entered the air. 

“He tell you that we talked?”

“He mentioned it. He didn’t say what about. He said he doesn’t think you’re so bad after all. And that he was glad you were there for me while he was gone.”

“Yeah, he said somethin’ similar to my face when I was there. You were right when you said you were the stubborn one. He didn’t tell you anything else?”

“No, he changed the subject. I didn’t want to pry.”

“Christ, Rogers, and I thought I was a dumbass waiting to ask out Riley. Okay, what’d you guys end up talking about?”

“He asked if we’d had any show or something that we used to watch together. I told him about all the stuff we used to like, we ended up watching Friends and the next thing I know I’m waking up. Are you gonna tell me what you guys talked about or not?”

A note of defensiveness, of anger, had entered his voice again. It was how he’d mostly spoken to Sam for the first few months they’d known each other. Now Sam usually called him out on it pretty fast, after he’d figured out that Steve was just an angry but well-meaning guy instead of an actual asshole. He got the ‘get off your bullshit’ eyebrow, but remained sullen as he stared Sam down to get his answer. This time, Sam was the one to give in. 

“He asked me not to tell you some of the stuff he said, so I can’t. But there’s memories, Steve. He’s got this weird thing where he refers to the guy he was in the past as a different guy. Even calls him ‘he’. But he remembers some stuff from that guy.”

“Yeah, he’s gotten a few snippets, Sam, but that doesn’t mean he’s anywhere near ready for— for whatever that was.”

“Yeah? He said the old him is still in there, Steve. From my time at the VA, generally when guys say that the ‘old them’ is still in there, it just means that they just feel too guilty about something to admit that they are the same person, just changed past the point of going back. Isn’t always a bad thing. But it generally doesn’t mean that there’s actually a different person in there who’s gonna come back. And the sooner he knows that, the sooner he can take the pieces of both versions and figure out how to make them into who he wants to be.”

Steve stood quietly. Snow had started to fall as Sam spoke; fat, fluffy flakes, black against the pale sky, white when they caught on the fabric of their coats and Wellie’s fur. He blinked when one caught on his eyelash. 

“There’s no old and new him. He’s just Bucky, Sam. He was Bucky when he’d never left the state, he was Bucky when not even me and a whole team of doctors could get Russia out of his head, and he’s Bucky now. So long as he wants to be.”

His voice was small now, hurt and scared. It wasn’t a voice a lot of people heard come from him. He could probably count them all on one hand. 

One of them was Bucky. 

“I know that. Which is why you should talk to him. He’s not gonna be able to move forward if he’s trying to claw his way back to the past. Believe me, it doesn’t end well.”

“I know that, Sam, you know I know that— I would’ve run myself into an early grave if you hadn’t made me quit thinkin that. But I don’t know how to get him to see that.”

He sniffled, his anger at the urge to cry just making it even harder not to. He twisted Wellie’s leash in his hands, hard enough that the slack didn’t hold up and she felt a small tug on her collar. He quit when she whined softly at his distress, but that didn’t get her to stop worrying over him.

“Hey. You’ve been doing a great job, Steve. Really, man. This isn’t an easy situation, I get it. But you gotta talk to him. Remember before we were friends? I thought you were an entitled, bullheaded asshole. It took us gettin’ into a screaming match before you actually talked to me. Don’t do that to him, he’s not as used to it as me.”

“Bucky was always better at the talking stuff. I’m good at getting mad and punching stuff.”

“Well, that’s what love is. Doesn’t have to be what you guys used to have, but I know you’re not gonna look me in the eyes and tell me that there’s no love there anymore, whatever form you wanna let it take. And love’s about carrying more than your share of the load when they’re down.”

“You’re right.”

“That’s what I keep saying. Nobody seems to listen.”

Steve finally laughed, weak but true. He rubbed the snow off Wellie’s fur, and they turned around to head back to the apartment. 

“How’s Riley doing?”

“He’s good. He said thanks for the Chinese food, and not to be a stranger. He’s also waiting on my muffin basket for getting stabbed. Bastard’s probably gonna eat all of em.”

Steve laughed again, stronger this time. 

“Alright alright, give it three to five business days. And we’ll do dinner soon, I promise.”

“Remember what we said about ‘soon’? I’m not gonna drag you away from Barnes, but you can’t hole yourself up. It’s not good for either of you. Plus we’re hungry and it’s your turn to treat.”

“Alright, before the end of the month.”

“Perfect. Bucky coming?”

“I don’t know. If he wants, I guess. Especially since you two made up.”

“Good. I can get Riley to embarrass him more for asking if you and I had anything going on.”

“He didn’t—”

“He sure as shit did, Rogers, and I am never letting him live it down.”

“Sam, that’s worse than the stabbing.”

Sam shoved him, and Steve’s laugh was bright even in New York’s suffocating gray.   
\--------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------  
Bucky woke up to neither Steve nor Wellie, but enough warmth that he knew it couldn’t have been long since they’d left. He probably just took her out, they’d be back soon. 

Bucky felt worlds better today; he’d spent the last several days in various degrees of unconsciousness, but today he finally felt lucid and even motivated to get off his ass and use some energy. Touching a hand to his forehead told him that he was still hot, and the cough he gave when he stood up was nastier than ever, but regardless he felt good. 

He cleared the coffee table from the empty boxes of food, but pocketed both the wrapper bearing the eerily familiar logo and a fortune from a cookie he’d eaten after Steve had fallen asleep. 

“No one can walk backwards into the future.”

He ignored being vaguely pissed off that he remembered Yoda enough to connect the syntax back to him, but still didn’t remember his own life. There was already too much irony for him in the message; he’d let go of the past, alright. Didn’t have the faintest inkling of it. And the future still wasn’t around for him to embrace. 

He didn’t remember ever cooking before, but somehow he knew how to cook bacon without cringing away from the grease, and where Wellie’s food was and how much to put in her bowl, and how he was pretty sure no one could actually taste paprika in scrambled eggs but they still looked cooler that way anyways. 

The food was sizzling away when the door opened again, and despite the mundanity of it all Steve still stood in the doorway like he was meeting a ghost all over again. 

Bucky shrunk under the piercing stare, grateful that Wellie at least broke the silence by rushing over to her food bowl and scarfing it down like they hadn’t already snuck her a belly’s worth of Chinese food last night. 

“Hey. I uh, I made breakfast.” Christ, his voice was rough. Worse than yesterday, actually hard to understand through the rough grain of sickness. Bucky winced, and coughed into his shoulder to try and clear his throat some.

“Yeah. So, you’re feeling okay? You sound really bad, Buck. How’s your fever?”

“I think it’s better. Still a little warm, but I’m good. Cough just sounds bad, is all.”

Steve finally wandered into the apartment, and didn’t so much place his hand on Bucky’s forehead as Bucky leaned down into it after it was extended.

“Yeah, it’s better today. Light at the end of the tunnel, huh?” Steve smiled up at him, and in the early gray light Bucky saw the shadows under his eyes. 

“Yeah, I’m gettin better.” He smiled back, turning to his cooking so he wouldn’t have to keep looking at how much Steve had suffered on his behalf. 

“So, Buck.”

“Mm.”

“I know you hate doctors and hospitals, but... the hospital gave me the contact information for an amnesia specialist. You don’t have to do it, it’s all up to you and doesn’t matter to me either way. But he’s a private clinic, not a hospital. Do you want to set up an appointment?”

Bucky didn’t answer at first. He grabbed the bacon with the weird tongs that had teeth that he didn’t know the name for, laying the strips out on a plate. He was trying to kill time, trying to breathe long enough for the mean thing wrapped around his ribs to loosen enough so he could talk.

“Buck, you don’t gotta—”

“No. I mean— I want to.” The low gravel of illness did not mix well with the nervous, pitched-up tone his voice was trying to take. It made it thin and whispery, probably not even audible over the sizzling of grease in the pan. Bucky drew in a breath, too sharp to look calm, and tried again.

“I want to. I do. I want to remember. Or at least know why I can’t. I just—” He didn’t know exactly, wasn’t sure what was wrong. He was scared, but of what? He knew now that hospitals weren’t what had hurt him, it was war. 

Maybe he was scared of what they’d tell him. 

He shrugged jerkily and divided out the eggs, taking two trips to the tiny two-person table Steve was seated at since he couldn’t carry more than one plate at a time when he was still missing a stupid limb. Steve had already poured two glasses of orange juice, which Bucky gladly took a sip from to try and clear whatever had a grip on him.

“I know, Buck. But if you wanna do it, then I promise it’ll be okay. You can bring Wellie, she has her certification for domestic stuff, just not like out in public. And you don’t have to do any of the treatments, if they recommend any. You can stop whenever you need.”

Bucky nodded silently.

Steve watched him as they continued eating, and Bucky knew he could see the jerkiness to his movements that he couldn’t seem to get control of. By the time he was chasing the last few scraps of egg around his plate, Bucky dropped his fork three times without even getting the bite in his mouth. 

“Buck, if you don’t want—”

“Can I call them now?”

Steve blinked when he was cut off, clearly not expecting that response. 

“Y—Yeah, Buck. Yeah, here—” He fished his phone out of his pocket and grabbed a business card off the fridge. Bucky was glad that his hand was at least big enough to span the phone screen, because it would’ve been humiliating to have to place the phone on the table and finger-stab to type in the numbers. He managed to type in the number correctly, and make it to the third ring before his blood ran cold.

He was calling a doctor. 

They were going to hurt him— no, no they weren’t, but they were going to tell him he wouldn’t remember, that he couldn’t ever really be Bucky again, would never get to have a skinny artist and a smart puppy and a mom who baked cookies and a little sister who’d grown so much—

“Hello? Is anybody there?”

He let the phone clatter to the table. 

“Buck. Bucky, hey. You don’t gotta, it’s okay. They can’t hurt you any more, ba— Bucky, I promise.” Steve had the phone in his hand, and bless him, he’d hung up so the receptionist couldn’t hear their conversation. Bucky ripped his gaze from the wood grain of the table, staring desperately instead at Steve’s eyes, aching with sympathy for him. 

“Hey, there’s my best pal. It’s okay, Bucky. You don’t have to go. You want me to leave? Or you wanna do your mantra, or go lie down—”

“I want an appointment.”

He gritted the words out, the phlegm and god knows what else in his lungs making his words mimic the cadence of a bicycle chain that’s come off the gear. Steve’s quiet, staring at him. 

“Please. I can’t give up.”

Steve sighed quietly, picked up the phone and started dialling again, putting the phone on speaker for Bucky to hear. He’d barely gotten through the first ring when Bucky’s panicking again, sticking his hand out palm up and gritting his teeth to keep from pulling his breaths in too fast. 

Steve held the phone away from his ear, ready to hang up, but Bucky shook his head and nodded at his hand.

“Hold it? Please?” 

So what if coherent sentences weren’t a priority right now. 

Steve set the phone down on the table and laced his fingers through Bucky’s, holding him with that same surprising strength he’d noticed that first night at the hospital. 

“Hello? Doctor Brennan Alastor’s office, how can I help you today?”

“Hi, um, this is Steve Rogers, calling on behalf of James Barnes.”

 

James Barnes. 

Nicknames weren’t written on dogtags, you had to tell people yourself. It had pissed him off a little for a while— he hated when instructors made him answer to ‘James’, when people used a name that wasn’t his own to identify him. James wasn’t him. It wasn’t, he wanted nothing to do with James, with George James Barnes who’d hit a pregnant woman and terrorized the people he’d wanted to protect. he was Bucky, and he didn’t get along with people who wouldn’t call him by what he considered was his Christian name. 

He was glad the Russian doctors didn’t know it. Everything else they knew about him, which was mostly just his name, rank, serial number, country and squad— was all perverted and mocked, all turned into weapons against him. They didn’t know about Bucky, about Steve. They weren’t hurting the real him, which meant that they couldn’t take it away. They couldn’t kill him, or keep him away from Steve, because Bucky Barnes was still free, and they’d never get their grubby, too-sterile hands anywhere near him. 

 

“Yes, I’m really sorry about earlier, he panicked on the phone.” Steve’s voice had dropped to be quiet and smooth, like background noise, like he was trying to not have anything around Bucky sound irrational or volatile. 

“I understand, sir, we have many patients dealing with trauma. Do you have a referral?”

“I do, um, Dr. Nasirah?”

“Oh, I do have a note on that to expect your call. James Barnes, chronic retrograde amnesia, unknown cause?”

“Yeah. Yeah, that’s him.” 

“Can he come in Monday at 9? We can set up more regular appointments after the doctor knows more about his condition.”

“Yeah, that’s great.”

“Alright, we’ll see him then. Have a nice day.”

“You too.” Steve sounded disengaged at this point, and no sooner had he hung up the phone than he was nudging Bucky, trying to get him to meet his gaze.

“Hey, pal. You wanna talk about it?”

Bucky shook his head, still holding tight to Steve’s hand. 

“Okay. It’s real brave, you know. I’m proud of you. And Buck, they can’t hurt you. I know that’s not gonna just magically make you feel better, but they can’t. You can bring Wellie if you want, hell I can come in with you and hold your hand the whole time if it’ll make you feel better. Anything, Buck. If this is what you want, I’ll do whatever it takes to help you do it. And no one is gonna lay a finger on you ever again.”

Bucky didn’t say anything. 

“I don’t have to go to the studio today. You wanna do somethin’ to make you feel better?”

Bucky looked at him warily. He didn’t want anything with people or noises, which was about 175% of things to do in New York City. 

“Like what?”

“Anything you want, Buck.”

“Can we watch Friends again?”

Steve smiled at him, the kind of smile that was born from pain, from a small moment of reprieve and the desperate hope-turned-conviction that everything would be alright. 

“’Course, Buck.”

Steve cleared the table, giving Bucky time to grieve for what he’d thought was going to finally be a day where he could be normal for once. He’d barely spoken to Steve, really, since they’d been reunited. He wanted to have a normal day, where they talked without fighting or Bucky feeling like this whole thing was utterly hopeless.

When they curled up on the couch together, Wellie curled up by Bucky’s side, he was more encouraged about the state of events. He felt a little more at peace, a little more encouraged that the future wasn’t so dark and hopeless after all. 

“Hey Steve.” 

The theme song was playing, enough time for him to have this short conversation without missing anything. He couldn’t miss anything, he needed to fill in everything he could that the old Bucky had known.

“Yeah, Buck?”

“Can I— can I lean on you? Like last night.”

Steve looked taken aback, and Bucky was already cringing before he burst into a huge smile and nodded. Bucky felt his heart stutter. It was such a big, bright smile, it felt like it filled up the whole damn room. It felt more powerful than someone Steve’s size should have in them. It was the best smile in the entire world.

“Sure thing.” Steve angled himself so Bucky could lean on him, but he was really tucked more against Steve’s frail chest than his shoulder. Steve leaned back against the arm of the couch, so Bucky was pretty much lying on top of him. Bucky didn’t object. Steve was a lot more solid than he looked, and once they’d settled, he could hear Steve’s heartbeat steadily thumping. 

He stroked Wellie absently as he watched, and before the first episode finished he felt skinny fingers brushing back strands of his own hair.

“Feels good.” He murmured, because he could feel the hesitancy in Steve’s motions. 

“After you came home,” Steve murmured, everything about him soft and warm and dreamlike, “I used to do this. They shaved your head in Siberia. It helped remind you that you weren’t there any more.”

“Sounds like a bullshit reason just to get you to do it more.”

Steve laughed, and even Bucky smirked as he felt the vibrations spread through Steve’s chest and into his own body. 

“Well, I like doing it. Your long hair’s pretty cool, y’know.”

“It was warm, ‘s the only reason I didn’t cut it. Think I should leave it?”

“Think you should do whatever you want. You’ll still be handsome either way, especially once you get some weight back on you.”

“Yeah? What if I did pigtails? You’d still think I’m handsome?” 

“I changed my mind. You’re not handsome until I see you with the pigtails.” 

Bucky laughed, bright and happy and breaking through the gray.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Honestly I've had a rough time and these guys always make me feel better. f you actually read or enjoy this fic, or have anything you want to learn more about with these two, please let me know. I love reading the reactions and I'd love to write what you guys want to see. And I'll probably delete this bit later, but it really cheers me up to get some reactions and I could super use that right now.

**Author's Note:**

> Title is a song from Next to Normal that basically captures what I'm hoping this work will end up being.
> 
> This was an RP with gay-on-the-moon on tumblr. I wrote Bucky and they wrote....pretty much everyone else. They are the light of my life.


End file.
